A New Genesis
by AndAllThatMishigas
Summary: A housekeeper finds herself in a new place and searching for a purpose. A priest finds himself in the same place but utterly lost. The relationship that blossoms between them will change them both utterly and completely. Jean and Lucien AU.
1. Chapter 1

**A New Genesis**

**I**

It was a nice little town. All things considered, anyway. Nice and little. She probably should have gone to a big city somewhere. Or gone abroad. She'd always wanted to travel. This was her chance, after all. But when it came right down to it, Jean Beazley did not want to live in a big city, and she did not want to live abroad. And she especially did not want to do either of those things alone.

She had started over alone before. When her husband died and her children were grown and she needed a way to support herself, Jean had gotten a good position as a housekeeper. If a farm wife knows anything, it's how to cook and clean and care for a homestead. Thomas Blake's homestead was not sprawling acres of fields with animals to tend, but a surgeon's practice with a small garden in the heart of Ballarat. He was happy to let her tend the garden and grow flowers in pots in the sunroom. She fed him well and kept things tidy. He had taught her how to keep the books and the appointments and how to take inventory of supplies and order more. She managed his home and his practice in an exemplary fashion. And Doctor Blake had given her a home and been a friend when she felt she had neither.

When his illness took hold of him, they both worked less and talked more. He shared with her so many things in those final weeks when she and the district nurse helped ease him to the end. Doctor Blake had lived a long life full of success, but he was haunted by the loss of his family. His wife had died over thirty years earlier. His son had been lost in the war. Doctor Blake was not bitter; he accepted his losses and held his grief deep in his heart, not ever bothering to curse his fate or wish for better. It was a dignified life he'd led, and it granted him a dignified death.

One week after Thomas Blake was buried, the solicitor came to the house to share the will with Jean. Apparently he had changed it less than a year before he died. His medical equipment was all donated to Ballarat Hospital. Jean was free to take any of the furnishings and books and such that she wanted. The rest was to be sold. The house was to be sold. And the proceeds were for Jean. _Provided that Mrs. Jean Beazley uses the funds to buy her own home somewhere outside of Ballarat_, the will stated. _It is my fondest wish that Mrs. Beazley make a new start for herself, to explore the world as she has always wanted, and to escape the ghosts of her past. _

And six months later, Jean found herself here. In this nice little town. With a cottage all her own for the first time in her life. This was not a farm belonging to her parents. This was not a farm belonging to her husband. This was not a house belonging to her employer. This was _her_ house. It was only four small rooms: kitchen and living room, bedroom and bathroom. But all four of those rooms were all hers. She took the bedroom set from the room she had with Doctor Blake, since it was beautiful and she wanted to retain something from that life. But she purchased a new dining set and new sofa and rugs for herself. She painted the walls of the living room a pale robin's egg blue and made her bedroom pink. The bathroom was a clean white and the kitchen cabinets were forest green. She had never really taken the time to design things for herself, for she always had others' tastes to consider. But all of this, this was hers.

That first night on her own in her new home, Jean said a prayer, asking God to watch over Christopher Jr. and his wife and her wayward Jack, blessing the memories of her Christopher and Doctor Blake. And she thanked God for all the gifts he had bestowed upon her, amen.

The prayer was one she'd said nearly all her life. The people in the prayer had changed over the years. But at the core it was always the same. Did it ever make a difference? She was not sure it did. The words felt hollow in her throat and were numb in her heart. The prayer was habit, more than anything else. Perhaps her faith had left her just like all the people she prayed for.

* * *

"Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death, Amen."

He let go of his parishioner's hand, hoping his face conveyed more sincerity than he felt in his heart. The words of the Hail Mary tasted like bitter metal in his mouth. They'd tasted like this before. For a long time now. He'd tried to ignore it, tried not to be reminded of the time he'd spent with that metallic filth on his tongue. The days and weeks and months and years of blood filling his mouth so often that he had forgotten what it was to live without it.

It had been many years since the taste of blood in his mouth had been the norm, but that taste…that bitter taste of hardship. It was back. There was no blood in his mouth, but he felt that old familiar loathing of his circumstance and of himself.

"Thank you, Father."

"Of course," he replied.

And Mr. Collins crossed himself at the altar and left the church.

There were no other parishioners left in the church. No line for the confessional. No one to bother him with their problems. Thank God.

The phrasing amused him. A silly thing for a priest to do, to thank God for anything. Well, perhaps it was exactly what a priest was supposed to do. But a priest who lost his way was something else entirely. Perhaps he could go back to the rectory and get back to his scotch. He'd only had about a third of it this morning before duty called.

It was a blessing and a curse—so to speak—that he had regular hours to keep each day. Confession at ten each day during the week, at two on Sundays. Mass performed each Wednesday evening and Sunday morning. Baptisms on Saturdays. Funerals on Friday. Catechism every Tuesday and Thursday. Mondays were spent training altar boys and tidying the church and whatever other chores needed doing. It was a lonely life, for the most part, shepherding this small flock in this small town. But it was a relief from the life he'd known before, with its messy entanglements and unspeakable cruelty. He would rather be alone and living by rote like this than going back to the horror he'd known before. Yes, it was better to be lonely than miserable. Loneliness brought its own misery, but it was safer this way. And it gave him plenty of time to find friendship in the whiskey.

He was about to go out the side door of the church to get piss drunk before he had to roust himself for catechism when he was rudely interrupted.

"Father Blake?"

With a small grumble to himself, he turned and pasted a smile on his face. "Good day to you, Mrs. Hooper. What can I do for you?"

"Is it too late to give confession today?"

"No, never," he answered kindly. He led the elderly woman into the confessional and closed the creaking wooden door behind him.

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned," Mrs. Hooper said shakily. "It has been six days since my last confession."  
"Tell me of your sin, my child." He always felt stupid saying that. None of these people were his children. Particularly not Mrs. Hooper who was older than his father.

Mrs. Hooper waffled on about something pointless. Vanity was her sin today. Last week it was avarice. No one ever had anything interesting to confess. They were sins, according to the bible, but they were harmless feelings, all in all. And he had very little sympathy for the guilt such things brought to these people who confessed to him.

His mind wandered as Mrs. Hooper went on and on, getting a bit teary as she did. Eventually, he had to stop her. He could not stand to listen to it any longer.

"Say three Our Fathers and two Hail Marys before bed tonight. We will say Our Father together now."

"Our Father who art heaven, hallowed by thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us, and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, forever and ever. Amen."

Mrs. Hooper thanked him profusely, wiping her eyes and blowing her nose on her old handkerchief. And when she was finished, she left. And he was alone again.

Before anyone else could come bother him, he left from the church and went out to the rectory. It was still part of the church, strictly speaking, but it was his. He had a home here. A roof over his head and a fire and a bed. It had not always been this way for him. And here, in his own room, drinking his scotch, he could finally shed his mantle of Father Blake. Here, he was just Lucien.


	2. Chapter 2

**II**

Perhaps being in a new place all by herself was keeping her awake. Or perhaps it was the excitement and anxiety of this new life of her own. Maybe the increasing dread over what on earth she was supposed to do now, now that she'd bought and decorated the house and unpacked nearly all her boxes. But whatever it was, Jean could not sleep.

Back before, when she'd lived on the farm or in Doctor Blake's house, she might get up and make a cup of herbal tea for herself. Or just some warm milk. She had to stay quiet so as to not disturb the others sleeping around her. Now, there were no such concerns. She was all alone.

And because she was alone, because she had no one who would miss her if she were out of the house, Jean got out of bed and put on some clothes and wrapped herself up in her heaviest coat and ventured out into the darkness.

The town looked different at night. Most places do, she supposed. But she was so new here, and she barely knew what it looked like in the daylight. The streets were deserted, which was not something she'd ever seen during the day. All the time she'd spent visiting her new house and having things delivered and painted and such before she'd moved in, Jean had not actually spent much time in town.

For months, she had clung to Ballarat. She had been allowed some time by the solicitor to reside in the Blake house until she found a new place of her own. She stayed in a hotel in Ballarat and drove back and forth in Doctor Blake's old car after the old house was sold. She could afford it quite easily; the money the doctor had left to her was nearly enough for her to live on for the rest of her life, if she lived frugally enough. Jean did not have want of fancy things, but she also did not want to live without working. She was concerned that she would become bored out of her mind with nothing to do and no one to take care of. Still, it was nice to not have to worry about money for the first time in her life.

But at last, she had left the comforts of the town she'd lived in all her life. It was so strange to think that it was no longer her home. She had been born there on a farm. Her own children had been born there on a different farm just two miles away. She had buried her parents there, and one of her brothers. She had put a gravestone in the churchyard for her husband, though his body was lost on a distant shore.

Doctor Blake had been right about Jean needing to escape the ghosts of her past. Ballarat had been her home for her whole life, but it had also been her prison. Too much kept her there. And that was why she had to leave. True, she was only forty miles away now. But it was an entirely new world for her here. A new start. A new beginning.

Jean's aimless wandering led her to a large willow tree. She smiled to see it, though she did not quite know why. Something about the cascade of branches and leaves, the somewhat haunting shade it created, even when the only light was cast down by the moon. Jean's memory flitted on her mother giving her a willow branch to bite down on while she was giving birth to Christopher Jr., as the willow was said to have pain-relieving properties. Whether or not that was true, she did not know. There was also a willow that grew in the churchyard in Ballarat. It was not nearby to any of the graves of her family members, but Jean walked by it whenever she went to church. And seeing it here, now, gave her some sense of familiarity, perhaps.

She walked closer and saw that this willow tree was right beside the entrance to the parish church. Jean had not been to this church yet, though Sunday was still a few days off. It was nice to know where it was beforehand. And the willow out front gave her a sense of welcome, though perhaps other more superstitious people may have felt otherwise. Willows were common in cemeteries, being harbingers of sorrow and spirits, but to have one at the entrance to a church was rather odd to her mind.

But this willow tree had more than met the eye. As Jean got closer, she saw a figure slumped up against the trunk of it. It was a man. And he did not look like he was in a very good way.

Ever so carefully, Jean approached the man. Looking back, she would surely be shocked at her own foolishness to attempt such a thing. But something about the quiet stillness of the middle of the night and her wistful mood caused by the willow tree made her bold.

"Hello?" she murmured softly. "Are you alright?"

It occurred to Jean that the man in question might be dead, which would be an ordeal she had no interest in participating in, but thankfully, as she got even closer, she could see his chest rise and fall with his breaths.

"Do you need some help?" she asked, slightly louder this time. The man stirred.

Though it was incredibly dark, Jean could make out most of the man's features. He was wearing a pair of black trousers and a very dirty and untucked light-colored shirt. His sleeves were rolled up, despite the cold. His arms were enormous. Jarringly so. His chest was broad. And his face, now blinking awake, was pleasant enough. He had a beard, which was not common to Jean's mind. His hair was light, possibly blonde or gray, she could not quite tell in the darkness, and curled in a rather unruly fashion. If she had to guess, she would say the man was about her own age.

"Hello, there." Jean crouched down to be at the man's eyeline as he came to consciousness. His eyes were bright, though the lids did not seem to want to open all the way.

"What's going on?" he asked her. His voice was gravelly from disuse.

"It's the middle of the night. I was out for a walk and found you under this tree. Do you need some help? Did you mean to go to the church?" she asked him gently.

He stared at her in confusion. "Church…yes…"

"Shall I find the priest for you?"

"N-no," the man stammered. "I can…I can go…" He pushed himself up to a standing position faster than Jean might have anticipated, but that did not last long. He swayed and fell against the tree, holding onto the trunk as one might hold on to the railing of a ship in a storm.

"Are you hurt?" Jean asked with concern, standing up to try to help.

"No, just drunk," the man slurred in response. He chuckled slightly at that, as though proud of such incapacitating inebriation.

Jean felt her sympathy vanish. "Perhaps you're better off under the tree."

The drunkard looked back at her, looking very curious as his half-open eyes searched her face and looked her up and down. "Who are you?" he asked suddenly.

"I'm Mrs. Beazley," she answered.

A strange sort of smirk crossed his lips. "And what are you doing out and about in the middle of the night, Mrs. Beazley? Doesn't your husband worry about you?"

Jean had now lost sympathy and respect for this man within about thirty seconds. "My husband died in the war, if you must know. And what I'm doing is of no concern to you…"

"Lucien," he said. "My name is Lucien. And perhaps I ought to know your first name."

She shifted uncomfortably, wondering how she could extricate herself from this situation and yet also wondering why she had not done so yet. "Jean," she finally told him. "My name is Jean."

"Well, since you're here, Jean, could you help me get to the rectory? It's just behind the church building there," Lucien told her.

"It might not be the best idea to wake up the priest in your condition," she warned.

Lucien let out a scoffing laugh. "Oh he won't mind. He knows me too well to be bothered."

There was a humor in Lucien's tone that Jean did not understand, but she did not want to question it too much. And she nearly wanted to decline his request for assistance getting to the rectory, but Lucien had already launched himself off the tree and into Jean. One of his enormous arms was slung over her shoulders. She reached around his waist out of reflex, somewhat startled to find him to be both warm and completely solid muscle. A shiver went down her spine at having a complete stranger be pressed so close to her. But he smelled of whiskey and sorrow, and she pushed all other things right out of her mind. She sighed, "Come along, then."

They made halting yet quick work of getting to the rectory. The small building was charming enough. The windows were all dark. Clearly the priest was asleep, as most rational people ought to be at that hour. "You can leave me here," Lucien said when they reached the door.

"I think maybe I should explain to…"

"No," he interjected, cutting through her offer. "You know how priests can be about women. Even a lovely widow such as yourself. Better you not get involved."

Those words caused far more questions in Jean's mind, though she did not quite know what to say.

"Best get home," he told her softly. Some of the drunken stupor had worn away by this point it seemed. He still had his arm around her shoulder and turned his head to look down at her. Their faces were bare inches apart. "Even without a husband to worry for you, it isn't good to wander the streets so late. I bet you weren't expecting to come across a sad drunk, were you?"

"No," she answered. Her voice came out as barely above a whisper, what with Lucien so close.

He smiled, inexplicably. "You never know what else might be lurking after dark. Thank you for your assistance, Jean. I hope you sleep well."

And with that, Lucien opened the unlocked door of the rectory and stumbled inside, closing the door firmly behind him in Jean's face. She was left feeling even more troubled and confused than she'd been when she got out of bed for her walk. But she took Lucien's advice. Time to get home and try to get some sleep before something even stranger crossed her path.


	3. Chapter 3

**III**

After a few days of decorating and unpacking, Jean stopped thinking about her strange encounter under the willow tree in the middle of her first night in town. She had slept better since then. No need to get up and go wandering about after dark.

She started going around to the local shops and meeting people as best she could. Not having a job yet made things rather difficult. There was not enough to fill her day and living alone was still an adjustment. She could manage perfectly well on her own but the lack of purpose and the lack of social interaction was going to be a problem if she did not sort it out soon enough. Jean had always lived a life in assistance of others. And she liked things that way. Taking care of people. Her husband, her children, Doctor Blake. She knew she would need to find something to keep her occupied and engaged with the outside world once everything in her new little house was all put away where she wanted it.

But the week rolled on and it was Sunday before she knew it. Her neighbors, the Collins family, had invited Jean to go to church with them. It was an invitation she happily accepted. She enjoyed church, for the most part. The familiar rituals of Mass and the hymns she could sing and the peace that the homily brought to her soul. And she would surely meet more people by going to church.

Little Joseph Collins, aged six, came knocking on Jean's door at nine thirty on the dot. "Mrs. Beazley, my mum says it's time for church," Joseph announced.

Jean greeted the boy and got her hat and purse and locked the front door behind her before Joseph took her hand and led her to the road where his parents and older sister, Maggie, were waiting.

As they walked, Mrs. Collins asked Jean about how she was settling in. They were such a friendly lot, the Collins family, and Jean felt very welcome among them. Other neighbors were introduced to Jean as everyone made their way through town to church. It was a pleasant way to pass a morning, and by the time the willow tree was in view, Jean was smiling happily.

An older woman greeted each person at the front door of the church, which struck Jean as mildly odd. Always in the past she had been greeted by the priest. But perhaps this parish functioned differently than Ballarat.

"Mrs. Williams, this is Mrs. Beazley. She just moved in next door to us," Mrs. Collins introduced. "Mrs. Beazley, Mrs. Williams is the choir director at the church."

"A pleasure to meet you, dearie," Mrs. Williams said, clasping Jean's hand warmly.

"The pleasure is mine," Jean replied politely.

Mrs. Williams went about greeting everyone else. Jean accompanied the Collins family inside. This was the first time she'd been in this church, and Jean felt it to be a feast for her eyes. It was not very large, but it was old and beautiful. It was hard not to compare the church she'd attended all her life with this new one, but they were of stark difference. Sacred Heart was white and gleaming and bright on the outside while dim and full of rich red wood inside. St. Catherine's on the other hand, was made of red brick and possessed a steeple that rose high in the sky above even the great willow tree out front. The inside of this church, however, was white-painted stone walls and dark wooden beamed arches on the ceiling with matching wooden pews. And at the end of the nave stood an imposing baldachin topped with marble angels and a red velvet backdrop to the proud Christ on the cross.

There was a hushed bustle all around of parishioners greeting one another happily as the altar boys readied the mass up front. Jean could hardly take it all in, the crowd finding their friends and their seats, the boys in their white robes pouring wine and setting out eucharist. Her son, Christopher, had spent a year as an altar boy. Jean had hoped Jack would follow in his brother's footsteps, but after his father died, Jack did not do much of anything that Jean had hoped for.

A loud clang sounded as the heavy church door closed. Mrs. Williams, hunched and shuffling, hurried through the aisle to where the choir was waiting with their books. Rather than a proper staging for the choir or even matching robes, the St. Catherine's choir all wore black trousers and skirts with white shirts, and they all sat in the first two rows on the right side of the nave. They stood and followed Mrs. Williams's lead on the steps up to the altar. The altar boys took their seats, as did the congregation. Mrs. Williams raised one shaky hand and led them in How Great Thou Art. They weren't half bad, to Jean's ear. They weren't really very good, but there was certainly nothing painful about their performance. Sacred Heart hadn't even had a choir, though, so Jean had little to compare to.

Little Joseph Collins flipped the hymnbook to the proper page for Jean and showed her where they were singing. She thanked him softly just as Mrs. Williams gestured for the congregation to begin singing. All the voices joined in song was Jean's very favorite part of being in church. The soaring feeling of singing from her heart and having her voice lifted by the others was just the most beautiful thing. Jean had not realized how heavy her heart had been these last few months in saying goodbye to Doctor Blake and starting her whole life anew. Here and now, she felt a lightness that she'd not experienced in so very long.

The congregation reached the end of its song and the choir filed back to their seats. Jean was so caught up in the hymn that she did not notice that the priest had entered and taken his place at the pulpit. And with the choir in the way, she could not actually see him from where she stood. But then a strong, clear voice said, "Be seated," and Jean's head jerked up. She knew that voice.

* * *

It was just another Sunday mass. Nothing too interesting about that. He left Ned and Peter in charge of setting everything up, as usual, and Lucien took the last few minutes of solitude to knock back a glass of whiskey. Just enough to take the edge off his headache and calm his agitation in anticipation of leading the service. His homily was already written and left on the pulpit for him when the time came.

The choir began singing How Great Thou Art and sang it mildly better than its usual abysmal level. Mrs. Williams was really getting too old for this. Her hearing must be going. But no one else was going to take charge of the choir, least of all Lucien himself. And so, resigned to his fate, he straightened his collar, pulled on his green robe, and headed out to the altar just in time for the congregation to finish singing,

"Be seated," he said, his voice ringing through the nave.

The congregation sat down, the choir taking a bit more time as always. He scanned the pews, looking at all his usual congregants and smiling quite sincerely to see them. For all the misery and pessimism bubbling inside him, Lucien was always reminded of the good he could do and the value he provided to the world when he saw his parishioners at Sunday mass. They were the proverbial flock and he was their shepherd. Someone else could surely do it better than he, someone better focused and with deeper faith, but Lucien knew these people. And he loved them, in his way. These ancient rituals in which he led them, the trust and devotion they placed in him as their priest, it was all what kept him here and kept him alive. No matter what his complaints might have been, Lucien knew he had a purpose at St. Catherine's, and he was never one to shirk from duty when placed upon him.

"In the name of the father and of the son and of the Holy Spirit," Lucien began, as he began every Mass.

"Amen," the congregation murmured.

"The Lord be with you," he continued.  
"And also with you," the answered.

That simple beginning was his favorite part. Of all the things he did as a priest, opening Mass with those oft-repeated words and hearing the rumbling response of the people never failed to lighten his heart. He gazed out over them again with a smile.

There was more for him to do, obviously, to move the Mass along, but something stopped him. A face in the rows of pews. One face that did not look at him with polite attention or indifferent boredom as was the norm. One face looked at him in complete shock. Wide eyes and a dropped jaw. A woman with chestnut hair wearing an elegant blue hat. Her lips were red with lipstick and formed a perfect O in her disbelief. And her eyes, oh her eyes, they were pale blue. He could see even from so far away the lightness and beauty of her eyes.

A memory niggled at the back of his mind. He knew those eyes.


	4. Chapter 4

**IV**

Lucien hardly paid any attention to the Mass that day. He knew the ceremony so well that he could do it while pissing drunk—which he had done more than once in recent times. His voice carried well and stayed mercifully even and did not shake when he was leading the congregation. He read his homily like one might read the phone book, but he did not care. His mind was elsewhere.

His eye could not seem to depart from that woman. Every time he looked up into the crowd, he was drawn to her. She seemed to have gotten over the shock of seeing him, a shock which was entirely understandable. She was now following along in the hymnbook and sitting beside the Collins family with a stoic expression. If he should hazard a guess, there was a slight twinge of displeasure. Well, he could not blame her for that. She'd found a drunkard in the middle of the night, passed out under a tree in front of the church. And four days later, he turns out to be the parish priest. No, he couldn't blame her at all for being surprised and probably appalled.

He had thought of her more than once in the last few days. Though he was often drunk and passing out in odd places around the church grounds, he'd never been found by anyone before. So her helping him that way was entirely new and unexpected and stood out on its own. Usually, if he fell asleep out of door somewhere, the sun woke him before anyone could find him and see their priest in such an undignified and pathetic way. Being discovered as he had was quite a shock to him as well as to her.

But what his mind had lingered upon, more than just the novelty of being found drunk by a passerby in the middle of the night, was her treatment of him when she did find him. She had been so unspeakably kind. Her first question was to ask whether he was hurt, whether she should find the priest—who she obviously did not know—and get him some help. And then when she learned of his inebriation, she was visibly annoyed. But she had not abandoned him, had not left him and saying he deserved what he got, as it was his own fault he was in that state. She had mentioned that he might be better off staying under the tree, but when he asked for her help getting to the rectory, she had not shunned him. She had helped him. She had held him around the waist and patiently walked him home. Of course, she did not know she was walking him home.

In his drunken stupor, her arm around his waist and his arm slung over her shoulders had felt so very nice. He had not realized it till he'd flopped on the bed that night and thought about her while staring at shadows on the ceiling that he genuinely did not remember the last time he'd had more physical contact with an adult than just holding someone's hand. He held babies during baptisms and sometimes the children in his classes might give him a hug in their exuberance. But he was a priest and such earthly comforts were not for him. She hadn't known he was a priest, though. And he'd not needed to be one around her.

The final prayer ended and Lucien wished all the parishioners a good day. Mass had ended and Lucien desperately wanted to leave where he stood at his pulpit. He needed…well, he needed a few things but a drink would suffice for now.

* * *

Mrs. Collins led Jean up to the front after Mass, wanting to introduce her to the priest. Jean tried to protest politely, but she could not very well refuse. She desperately did not want to be anywhere near the priest in that moment, not till she was able to be alone to collect herself and determine what she thought and felt about the whole thing. She'd not even gone up to receive communion in order to avoid him. Now she had no choice.

"Father Blake, this is Mrs. Beazley. She's just moved in next door to us," Mrs. Collins introduced.

The priest smiled. Jean had not noticed how shockingly blue his eyes were the other night. The darkness had hidden that from her. He reached out with his enormous hand to shake hers. "A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Beazley. Welcome to the parish. I'm very glad you joined us today," he said kindly.

It did not escape Jean's notice that his smile was just a little forced. She could not tell whether or not he remembered her. There was no look of recognition in his face, either during Mass or now. But she had noticed that he'd looked at her quite a lot. Perhaps his memory just made her familiar to him and he could not quite place where. Hopefully that was it.

"Mrs. Beazley," he continued, "I don't know if you're otherwise engaged this afternoon, but I hope you might be able to meet with me at two o'clock today. I like to have a private meeting with newcomers to our church, so I can get to know you a little and you can ask any questions you might have about the parish."

Jean was mildly stunned by that but did not want to appear rude. "Yes, I'm available today. That's…that's very kind, thank you," she replied.

Mrs. Collins was pleased as punch about that. "We're hosting Mrs. Beazley for luncheon today, but I'll make sure she's free by two. Thank you so much, Father."

He put a kind hand on her shoulders. "It's my duty to the congregation, Mrs. Collins. And by the way, I thought you should know that Maggie is doing much better in catechism class now that she and Peter have become…friendly."

"What!?" Mrs. Collins gasped in surprise.

But the priest just chuckled good-naturedly. "Nothing to worry about, Mrs. Collins, I promise. They're both twelve, it's just an innocent crush on both sides. But Peter is quite devoted to his acolyte position and Maggie's gotten much more serious about her studies at church under Peter's influence. And I think they might have gone to the pictures together last week after school, if I'm not mistaken. Their friendship seems to have done both of them a lot of good, and I only wanted to bring it to your attention so there's no trouble about it."

Poor Mrs. Collins seemed quite surprised by this turn of events. She awkwardly thanked the priest and turned to leave. He told Jean he'd see her later, and she just nodded and followed Mrs. Collins out to join the rest of her family.

Jean walked with the family back to their street. And she could not stop thinking about that man. Priest. Father Blake. She'd have to remind herself that from now on. Father Blake. The priest. He did look much better with his hair in place and his eyes bright and awake and his cassock neat and tidy. Even if he did wear a beard. No one in the church seemed to mind a priest with facial hair. Jean assumed they also did not know that their priest could be found passed out under a tree in the middle of the night. Perhaps they'd feel differently if they did.

But Father Blake seemed beloved, from what Jean had seen. The Collins family only had good things to say about him. And the way he had handled the issue with Maggie Collins and the young altar boy, Peter, was a bit surprising. Jean had never seen a priest act with such kindness and understanding before. He seemed to know that young boys and girls are apt to develop feelings for one another around that age and it's nothing to be concerned with and may even be something to encourage, if both the boy and girl benefitted from one another. In Jean's experience, the church tended to frown on any and every interaction between boys and girls or men and women unless it involved marriage. And even then, it was for the woman to defer to the man in all things. Priests could usually be counted on to discourage any intermingling between the sexes. Father Blake, it seemed, might be different.

"Maggie, Father Blake told your mother that you're doing well in catechism class," Jean said to the young girl walking quietly beside her. "Do you like catechism?"

She shrugged. "It's alright. I never used to want to go, but it's okay now." Maggie blushed slightly, which Jean assumed had something to do with Peter.

Jean did not press about the boy. Instead she asked, "Is Father Blake a good teacher?"

"Yeah, he's really nice and really funny. He tells good stories."

None of those were descriptors Jean had ever heard for a priest before. She'd grown up with the rigid Father Morton. He'd always been a gentle old man, even when Jean was a child, it seemed, but he did not tolerate deviance from Church doctrine in any regard. She never would have called him 'nice.' And Father Emery, who had been very kind to Jean in arranging for Doctor Blake's funeral, was not particularly warm and certainly not funny.

The luncheon with the Collins family was a fine way to spend the afternoon. They asked Jean about her old life and what brought her to town. They asked her about her family and her interests. It was strange, actually, to talk about herself to people who did not know her. In Ballarat, everyone seemed to know her or at least know of her. It was oddly refreshing to tell her own story anew.

She enjoyed herself so much, in fact, getting to know her knew neighbors and letting them get to know her, that she lost track of the time. It was not until Mrs. Collins told her it was already half past one that Jean remembered she had an appointment to keep. An appointment she did not want to keep. But she'd never been one to go back on her word, as much as she might have liked to in that moment.


	5. Chapter 5

**V**

Jean walked back to the church by herself. She was immensely anxious about the whole thing and had to actively stop herself from wringing her hands as she walked. Being alone with the priest was the stuff of nightmares for her. Not that being alone with any priest would be a nightmare, but this one in particular was causing her distress. She had only just, hours before, learned that he was the drunk she'd assisted on that strange first night in town. That was quite a lot to process. And now to be alone with him would surely prove to be awkward. How could she treat him with the respect that a priest deserved when she knew of his embarrassing and positively shameful drinking? And was that a usual occurrence for him, something that he hid from his parishioners?

The idea that he was going to address the incident made her nervous enough, her being new to town and suddenly having some kind of confrontation with the priest, but what made her just as wary was the thought that he did not remember her at all. How could she get through it with a straight face? He would surely notice her discomfort. What if he asked what was bothering her? Should she bring it up to him? Or would that just cause further shame and embarrassment for them both?

When it came right down to it, Jean did not know what to expect. And that was what made her more nervous than anything. Nevertheless, she would carry on as she always did. She would take her cue from him and she would keep her mouth shut. Though, for Jean, such a thing was always easier said than done.

Jean had arrived at the church before she knew it. The willow tree greeted her once again. It was strangely less comforting in the light of day. It wasn't unnerving, but the magic it held for her that first night was not present when there was no glow from the moon and dark shadows cast by the branches.

The church was all empty by now. When she had left before with the Collins family, there were still plenty of families talking and milling about, some waiting to speak to the priest, Mrs. Williams chatting with some of the members of the choir. They were all gone now. There was a stillness to the church when Jean entered that she found calming somehow. But then again, she'd always found peace in empty, quiet spaces. Farm life was filled with people and workers and children and animals and hard work, where everyone had a task to do at any given moment of the day. Emptiness was a foreign concept. Doctor Blake's house and surgery had been just the opposite. He enjoyed the quiet, and Jean found his home to be a blessed relief. She had plenty of work to do, but if he were working in his study or busy with a patient behind a closed door, Jean was left in silence all to herself. She learned a lot about herself in those silences. Learned who she was without the clamoring cacophony of responsibilities hounding her at every turn. Now, of course, living alone, she lived in nothing but silence. Perhaps it would bother her one day. It hadn't, yet.

She took no more than three steps inside the nave when the priest appeared. "Hello, Mrs. Beazley," he said kindly.

It did not escape Jean's notice that, despite the largeness of the space, Father Blake did not raise his voice to speak; it carried over the vast divide without any trouble at all. "Good afternoon," she replied politely, similarly not raising her voice.

He smiled at her, then. From where Jean was standing, this smile of his looked more natural than when he'd greeted her after Mass earlier. "If you'd like to come this way, I thought we might have a chat in my study." He gestured towards the open doorway he'd just come in from.

Jean just nodded and quickly made her way up the aisle to the front altar and went to the far left side, falling into step beside him.

"St. Catherine's isn't as old as some churches, of course, but I'm afraid the building is falling into a bit of disrepair. We do our best to keep it in good order. If you look closely, however, the veneer is thin. Though the same can be said about most people, I think," the priest noted pleasantly.

Such a comment took Jean by surprise. Too many things about Father Blake took her by surprise. She did not often enjoy being on the backfoot so frequently, but there was something that kept her from sprinting in the other direction away from him and this whole mess. More than likely it was just her own politeness; it wasn't nice manners to be frank and uncomfortable about such things. Better to stand and face it all with head up and shoulders back. And that's just what she did.

* * *

Lucien led Mrs. Beazley back to his study. He'd tidied it up a bit before her arrival. She already knew far too much about his less-than-priestly habits, and he did not wish to give her any more fodder for a bad opinion of him. Oh others in town might think him a bit odd in his ways, perhaps a bit progressive for their tastes. But as a member of the clergy, he was granted far more leniency than he might have otherwise. His position commanded respect and obedience, and which Lucien did not find such blind reverence to be at all healthy, it certainly gave a good structure to things and protected him from an unsavory reputation that he would surely otherwise earn.

"Have a seat, Mrs. Beazley," he offered, gesturing to the chair in front of the desk. He crossed to the other side and sat down facing her with the desk between them. Much safer this way.

"Thank you for inviting me to meet with you, Father," Jean said. Was that a slight waver in her voice he detected? Perhaps that was wishful thinking. If she were nervous, it would make this whole thing slightly easier for him. She seemed immensely unflappable, which was a quality in a woman that Lucien always admired but preferred to do so from a distance.

"It's my pleasure," he replied. "But I will admit that the invitation was under slightly false pretenses. Not that I don't want to welcome you to the parish, but I hardly need a private meeting with newcomers for that."

Her eyes widened slightly. Oh her eyes were a marvel. So much expression and life in those eyes. Were they blue? No, perhaps turquoise. But pale, almost gray. And those eyes, whatever color they could be called, conveyed to him her now-obvious discomfort with the whole situation. He'd not wanted to make her to anxious. Such a thing would be cruel. So he'd not keep in in suspense for long.

"I didn't expect to see you at Mass today. And I daresay you did not expect to see me. And so I thought it would be best to get everything in the open between us sooner rather than later."

"I see," she answered, very wary.

As much as he hated to do it, as awkward as it all was, Lucien knew he had to say it all out loud. "I passed out drunk under the willow tree in front of the church a few nights ago. And you found me and helped me back to the rectory. You obviously had no idea who I was, but you helped me anyway. And since nothing has reached my ears—and I assure you, it would have—you obviously haven't been telling the story around town."

"No," Jean said. "I…I don't really have anyone I would tell."

"I'm sure that won't be true for too long," he responded kindly.

"Well, it's not the sort of story one tells in polite company. And I wouldn't have wanted to explain what I was doing wandering around town in the middle of the night," she pointed out.

Such a thing had not yet occurred to Lucien. "Yes, why were you wandering around town in the middle of the night, Mrs. Beazley?"

She pursed her lips and blushed every so slightly. "I couldn't sleep. It was my first night here, in my new house. And I…I've never had my own house before. I guess I wasn't used to it yet. So I thought I'd go for a walk, since there was no one in the house I'd bother with my absence."

"You're a widow, if I recall."

"Yes," she nodded. "My husband was killed in the war."

"Oh I'm terribly sorry."

She gave a tight, polite smile. "It's been a long time."

"But you still wear his ring, I noticed. That's rather lovely. Keeping his memory and your love for him alive."

Mrs. Beazley just nodded at that.

Lucien knew he needed to steer the conversation in a different direction, lest they touch on anything too uncomfortable for the both of them. "May I ask, Mrs. Beazley, what you do for work?"

"Nothing, at the moment. I was a housekeeper for a doctor, previously. He had no family and left his estate to me under the strict instruction that his house be sold and I be given the proceeds to buy a home of my own somewhere outside the town where I'd lived all my life. So that's what I did. And since I've only been here a week, I haven't found any employment as of yet. I'd like to, at some point, to give me something to do. But thankfully, I'm lucky enough to not need the money anytime soon," she explained.

He could not help but smile at that. A very practical woman, this Mrs. Beazley. Practical and kind and discreet. An idea formed in his mind, and he leaned forward to speak candidly. "Can I be frank, Mrs. Beazley?"

"Of course."

"You might be the only person who knows the truth about me. The condition in which you found me that night was not entirely uncommon. My reasons are my own, and I am able to keep up with my duties at the church just fine. But having you come upon me in that state has me quite concerned with what the future may hold."

"I don't think I understand," she said with a frown.

Lucien gave a sigh of determination and barrelled forward. "I can't pay much, since we are a church, so it's good you don't really need the money. But I'd like to hire you."

"Hire me?" Her surprise was evident in the features of her lovely face.

"I don't need a housekeeper. I can care for things myself and we've got volunteers to clean the church on a regular basis. But what I do need is help. A blind eye every now and then. A damned good talking to at other times. You know, I'm sure there may well be days when it's all a bit…"

"Confusing?" she supplied.

He chuckled slightly, as did she. "Yes. It won't be like it was with your last employer with me. With me it will always be somewhat…messier."

She was quiet for a moment, as if to say, _Yes, I can see it would be messier and that seems quite an understatement_. But aloud, she said, "So are you trying to say that...?"

"Yes…Yes." Lucien was at a slight loss, actually, not really knowing what he was trying to say beyond what was already said.

"Yes," she agreed with a small smile. "You said you needed some help?"

And at that, Lucien himself smiled. "Yes."


	6. Chapter 6

**VI**

Mrs. Beazley began the following day. She arrived bright and early—earlier than Lucien had anticipated. He'd not even gotten up yet when she knocked on the rectory door. He shouted for the visitor to wait a moment, his voice hoarse from the rollicking good time he'd had inside a whiskey bottle the night before. His head was pounding as he threw a dressing gown on and answered the front door.

"You shouldn't come to the door like that," she said sharply.

Her voice was too harsh and the sun was too bright for him to follow anything that was happening. "Come to the door like what?"

"Looking like you've just stumbled out of a pub," she clarified. Though her tone did not alter at all, much to his chagrin. "Now, I don't think you should be seen in this state, so please let me in and get yourself cleaned up while I begin," she instructed.

Lucien just moved aside so she could bustle inside. She took off her coat and hung it and her purse by the door. He watched her in slight awe. But that was more to do with the hangover than anything else.

"Do you often stay in bed past nine in the morning?" Mrs. Beazley asked, eyeing him up and down with a judgmental furrow of her brow.

"Except Fridays and Sundays, yes."

Her eyebrows raised at that. "Why those days?"

"Funerals on Fridays. Mass on Sundays. Can't be late," he mumbled in response.

"You'd said you handled your duties properly, I'm glad to see that's the case," she noted with an approving nod.

Lucien scrubbed his face with his hands and scratched his fingers through his unkept hair. He'd need to get it cut soon. It was starting to curl a bit too much. But that was a concern for another time. "Mrs. Beazley, what are you doing here?"

"You hired me to help you," she reminded. "No time like the present to begin."

"Haven't you got other things to do at nine in the morning?" he grumbled.

She frowned. "I have been up since six. Since then, I've gotten dressed and fixed my hair, made breakfast for myself and done the dishes, watered my indoor plants and my back garden, and I've walked here. What else would you have me do with my morning, Father?"

He stared blankly at her for a moment. She just stared right back. Her eyes were awake and rather flinty with her obvious disapproval. His own eyes felt scratchy and quite heavy. He needed to escape her scrutiny before it drove him mad. "I'll…I'll just get dressed."

As he turned and walked back to his bedroom, he heard her say, "You could do with a bath." He did not say anything in response, just muttered to himself because he knew she was right.

Lucien did feel much better once he was clean and shaved and dressed. It was more work than most people knew, having a beard and keeping it neat. But he'd not have it any other way. Being clean-shaven caused too many questions. And truth be told, he quite liked that he was a priest with a beard. That fact made the more conventional who came upon him begin somewhat wary of him. And he liked it that way.

Once his cassock and collar were in place, his hair coifed properly with Brylcreem and his beard freshly trimmed, he returned to the front room where he'd left Mrs. Beazley. Only he did not find her waiting patiently for him. No, instead he heard noise coming from the kitchen.

"Mrs. Beazley?" he called out.

"In here, Father," she replied.

He walked into the kitchen to find it nearly unrecognizable. "Goodness, I wasn't gone that long, was I?" It seemed that in the fifteen minutes he'd left her, Mrs. Beazley had begun cleaning everything in sight and also managed to make a plate of eggs and toast.

"Breakfast on the table for you," she said simply.

Lucien sat down at the old, rickety table where she'd set a place for him complete with a neatly folded napkin and very carefully placed silverware. "You didn't need to do this," he said in disbelief.

She shrugged. "You didn't tell me what else to do. And you looked like you could use something to eat."

He could not help but smile slightly at her. "That's very kind. Thank you." He gestured to the empty chair beside him. "Would you join me?"

"I've already eaten, but I'll sit and have a cup of tea as soon as the kettle is done," she replied.

They were both quiet while she stood and fixed her tea and he scarfed down the food she'd made for him. It was incredible, actually; he'd not known how starving he was. He did not usually eat breakfast most days. Typically, a glass of whiskey would take the edge off the headache and he'd be able to start with his tasks for the day without anything else till around lunchtime. Probably not the healthiest of habits. Actually he knew quite well it was terrible for him. But he couldn't much care most of the time. Perhaps that was set to change.

By the time Mrs. Beazley sat down, Lucien was eating the last few bites of toast and eggs. "So," she began, "what is it you'd like me to do, other than the obvious?"

He looked up at her, confused. "The obvious?"

"Well I know you said you don't need a housekeeper, but this place is a mess. Frankly, I was shocked you had any food in."

"Some of the volunteer ladies in the sewing circle take turns bringing me groceries each week," he explained.

"That's very kind of them."

"It is. Though I'll admit it makes me quite uneasy."

Now was her turn to look at him in confusion. "Why should it? The parish priest cares for the spiritual needs of his parishioners, and the parishioners care for the earthly needs of the priest. Isn't that how it's supposed to work?"

"You're probably right," he shrugged. "But the ladies who do this particular task do so because they can't afford to tithe each week. And as I understand it, the various shopkeepers in town know when they're shopping for me, and they give a very nice discount on their wares on my behalf."

"And that makes you uneasy?"

"Yes, I suppose. The shopkeepers are selling for less than their products are worth. The ladies go to the trouble of keeping me fed when they can barely feed their own children. It seems that I'm the only one who benefits."

"But having you fed benefits all of them," she pointed out.

Lucien sighed, knowing he was just talking himself in circles. "I don't know that I can explain it much more than that."

She eyed him, this time with what seemed to be curious interest rather than harsh judgment as she'd done upon her first arrival. She did not say anything else, just sipped her tea and watched him.

The silence was somewhat deafening and Lucien desperately needed to fill it. "In answer to your initial question, Mrs. Beazley, I think for today we could probably tackle a clear-out of the rectory. You've made a brilliant start on the kitchen. I've not opened half these cabinets in years," Lucien remarked, looking at all the open cupboards around him.

"Did you say 'we?" she asked.

"Yes, I've got Ned and Peter, my altar boys, who come by after school on Mondays for their work, but I don't have anything else I'm needed for until about three. And since it's my living space you're tidying, I ought to know what you're doing, eh?"

A small smile crossed her lips. "Very well." She opened her mouth again but closed it, choosing to take another sip of her tea.

"You were going to say something else?" he prompted.

She swallowed and replied, "No, I just…I've never met a priest like you before."

"Known many, have you?" he teased lightly.

Thankfully, she smiled at that. "No, just the two from my old parish. One who was there from when I was a child up until about a year ago, and then the one who replaced him. Father Morton was a rather difficult man. Father Emery somewhat less so. But neither were like you."

Lucien understood what she was saying. And she was right. He was not like other priests. Nor did he want to be. The boy he'd been would have never dreamed of joining the clergy. He'd had ambitions and hopes of loftier things. But his life had taken a very different turn. And…well…this seemed the only path forward. Following that path was a choice he regretted nearly every day of his life. But at the same time, he could not imagine doing anything else now.

"I'll do the dishes and then we can get a start," Mrs. Beazley said quietly.

He nodded, handing the empty plate to her. Part of him wanted to sneak into his room and have a few swallows of whiskey to fortify himself for spending the rest of the day with her, but he decided against it. Strangely, at this precise moment, he didn't really want to have a drink. Ah well. Perhaps later.


	7. Chapter 7

**VII**

Jean went home that first afternoon feeling, above all, satisfied with her day. She had cleaned and organized the entirety of the kitchen in the rectory and made a very good start in the parlor before Father Blake told her to go for the day. That entire exchange had been quite odd, now that she thought about it.

"I thought maybe ten pounds a week?" His voice was hesitant. Tentative. Nervous.

"Oh…yes, that would be fine," she replied. Doctor Blake had paid her twelve pounds a week, but he had also given her room and board, and there had been much more responsibilities with that last job. With this one, she seemed to just be around for whatever the priest needed. What that was going to be seemed changeable. Just how changeable was yet to be seen.

"Right. Good," he said with a nod. "Then I'll pay you on Fridays?"

"Alright." Was she going to earn ten pounds for only five days of work? Did he not want her to come on Saturday or Sunday? Or would she work all seven days and just be paid on Fridays? The logistics would surely work themselves out, but the priest was obviously not in any mood to work them out. He was so fidgety when talking about how much to pay her and when that she decided to not ask any questions.

After that, he'd thanked her and told her he needed to go to the church and see to Peter and Ned, the altar boys, and she was free to go home. Jean did not like the idea of leaving a task half-finished, but she also would not impose her presence when it was not wanted. He may have been uncomfortable with her in his living quarters when he wasn't there. Perhaps one day she could earn his trust. Until then, she'd just do as she was told.

As she made her way home, still pleased with the work she'd done, Jean wondered whether or not she actually was much good at just doing as she was told. She liked to think she was. She liked to think she did what was expected of her, followed the rules laid out in front of her. And perhaps from a distance, she was an obedient sort of woman. But upon closer inspection, such a trait was not really one that Jean could claim.

From the time she was a small girl, she'd possessed a wildness that had been so resistant to being stamped out. She wanted to play outside with her brothers and run in the fields and wrestle in the mud and ride the horses barebacked. But doing such things got dirt in her hair and tears in her dresses and constant scoldings from her mother. Jean stopped doing all the fun things she'd loved as a girl and learned to be quiet and pay attention and do what was asked of her because it was easier than fighting against the bricks of expectation that put a wall up between her life and the one she wanted.

There had been a crack in that wall. One almost big enough for her to walk through. And that crack's name had been Christopher. Oh he was a wild one, to be sure. A quick temper and a fierce loyalty and a recklessness that made her heart soar. She had believed, for a time, that he would carry her through that wall, that they'd be able to live out their dreams together. But for those hopes, she had been punished. Married with a baby well on the way and all their hopes dashed like the last fall leaves crushed under winter boots.

Jean opened her front door and gave a small smile. What would it have been like, she wondered, if Father Morton were not her priest at the time, but Father Blake? This priest with the muscular frame and the neatly trimmed beard. She had already heard him speak to Mrs. Collins about the benefits of Peter and Maggie's friendship and the kind encouragement he was giving them. Would he have similarly smiled upon Jean and Christopher? It was different, of course. Peter and Maggie were only twelve and their spending time together was quite harmless. She and Christopher had been eighteen and nothing they'd done had been harmless. But would the priest have married them in a manner that would give them strength and optimism for the future? Or would he have done just what Father Morton did, marry them with a distinct air of bitter disappointment and shame?

It hurt sometimes, even still, to think about that difficult time in her life. Christopher had been gone such a long time. They'd not really had much time together at all. Their lives together on the farm, raising their boys, scrimping and saving and starving some nights just to get by, they all blurred together in her mind. It was sad, really, that there was a veil over her memories of that time. There had been a veil over her insistent wildness, too. A heavy veil. Like bricks. That wall had gotten patched up quite nicely from Christopher's cowardice. It was unkind to even think, she knew, but it had been cowardice that had kept him from signing up for so long, and it had been cowardice that made him sign up and go when called to the front; he had been too afraid to go to war and give up the relative security of his family, but he had also been too afraid to stay and talk to her and do the work that needed to be done in their marriage. She had wanted to be brave enough for the both of them, to be ready to talk things through, to remind him of the wild children they'd once been, to help him find his way back to that joy they'd shared in their early days. But Jean had never gotten the chance.

That was the part that was hard to think about. She shook herself, dispelling the notion from her mind. Christopher was dead and gone. What was done was done. No use dwelling on it now.

The pale blue of the walls of her sitting room brought Jean back to smiling. She wanted a cup of tea, but it could wait for now. She instead sat down on the brand-new sofa and gazed around her little room. Her things were nearly all put just where she wanted them. And really, she did not have too many things, for she'd gone from occupying just one room of her own to now having an entire house.

Those walls, though, they brought such comfort. She loved the color so very much. It was a happy color, that blue. It was bright without being distracting. It was soft without being ignored. And, strangely, it was nearly the same color as Father Blake's eyes.

He had beautiful eyes, she noticed. Deep, piercing, soulful eyes. But for all the kindness and delighted sparkle she saw in his eyes, there was something more to that bright blue that she knew lurked beneath. It was a look she recognized, for she saw it her own eyes every time she looked in the mirror. It was the look of a person who had been robbed of all hope but who desperately tried to find some anyway. Though perhaps it was wishful thinking that led her to believe such a thing about the priest. She wanted to find commonality between them, for there seemed to be absolutely none.

Yes, so far as Jean could tell so far, the only two things she and Father Blake had in common were their religion and their taste in breakfast foods. She had been a devout—or as devout as one could be while retaining a firm grasp on reality—Catholic her whole life. And he was obviously a Catholic priest. And when she had made eggs and toast for him that morning, just the same way she'd made them for herself only an hour or so earlier, he'd wolfed them down. Perhaps he was just hungry. Or perhaps he liked his eggs the same way she did.

Jean sighed to herself. She must be getting lonely already to be searching for such banal commonalities with the priest, of all people. But he was now her employer, technically, though she did not really think of him that way. An employer, in her experience, was someone to serve and respect. Someone to honor. And Father Blake was an admitted drunk, as she'd seen herself. He was not the kind of man Jean Beazley would ever honor or respect or serve absent a formal arrangement in place. And such a formal arrangement had transpired, it seemed.

She got up from the sofa after admiring her pretty blue walls. It was time to make that cup of tea. She had other things to be getting on with that did not involve journeying down memory lane and thinking strange thoughts about the priest.

No, as she took the sugar from its place in one of those forest green cabinets she loved so much, Jean made the conscious decision to put Father Blake right out of her head for the rest of the day. He was busy with his altar boys. And Jean would make herself busy, too. Perhaps she'd spend the afternoon baking. Lamingtons were always nice. She might even bring a plate over to Mrs. Collins next door. Yes, that's what she'd do. She'd make Lamingtons. Enough hopeful, regretful musings for one day.


	8. Chapter 8

**VIII**

The second day of work in the rectory began much like the first. She had, once again, fed the priest his breakfast and made tea and cleared this up while he struggled to roust himself for the day. Obviously he'd had another night filled with alcohol. Again. It really did boggle the mind that he could function at all, living like that. Jean did not disapprove of a drink here and there. She kept a bottle of sherry at home and had a bit in the evenings, a few nights a week. She and Doctor Blake had shared wine at dinner on holidays.

But to be constantly passed out drunk and waking up hungover all the time? She could not imagine what it was that he was trying so hard to escape from. He was so devoted to his parishioners and his work. He was kind and charming and intelligent, as far as she could tell. And yet he allowed himself to live like this. No wonder he'd asked for her help. He certainly needed it. She might be understanding—to a point—but others would certainly be less so if the truth ever became known.

So after she'd gotten him up and fed and functional, they'd gone through and done a wonderful clear out of the parlor, organizing and cleaning everything as they went. He had, to Jean's great fascination, a vast number of records. She'd found them in a pile behind the phonograph and sifted through them a bit as she made space on the shelf.

"You like jazz?" she asked in surprise.

"Very much, yes. Do you like jazz, Mrs. Beazley?" he asked in return.

She smiled, holding up an album by Duke Ellington. "This I like quite a lot. But I wouldn't think this is the sort of thing playing in a seminary," she noted. The album in question had been popular around the time she and Christopher had gotten married. And, presumably, Father Blake had been just entering the church at that time.

"Oh no, I found this long before the seminary found me," he chuckled. "I spent a lot of time in Berlin in the Thirties. The jazz clubs there were phenomenal."

"Berlin!? What on earth were you doing there?" Such a prospect was astounding to Jean. She did not know anyone who had ever spent time anywhere more glamorous than Sydney.

Father Blake smiled gently. "I was doing what we all do wherever we find ourselves."

"And what might that be?"

"Living."

His comment stirred something in her. He seemed to have some deeper meaning. Or at least phrased it to be much deeper than just 'living.' Whatever it was, it hastened her to silence.

"Here, why don't you pop that on, let Duke entertain us while we work, eh?" he suggested, pointing to the phonograph.

Jean did as he said. After a slight crackle, the light notes of the piano sounded, followed by the tinny noise of trumpets and a steady beat played with brushes on the drums. A clarinet joined, and all the parts of the orchestra began playing their own harmonies and counter melodies in that perfect old way. Jean smiled to hear it.

As they cleaned, she could not help dusting in time to the music, swaying her hips a bit as she moved around the room. A time or two, she thought she heard the priest humming and singing along slightly, but perhaps she had been mistaken. But all in all, they went about the work quite happily until it was done.

They left the music playing while Jean made a spot of lunch for them both. They sat together at the small kitchen table for the sandwiches she made from leftovers in the refrigerator.

"Did you do much cooking in your last job?" he asked after swallowing the bite he'd taken. She was grateful for that, to see he did possess basic table manners.

"Yes. I prepared all the doctor's meals," she replied after she herself had finished chewing.

"Ah yes, you did say you'd worked for a doctor. What sort of doctor was he?"

"Oh just the usual sort, I suppose. General physician and surgeon. Though he didn't spend much time at the hospital. He was on the hospital board, but rarely used the privileges he maintained there. He much preferred his surgery at home."

Each answer she provided seemed to pique his curiosity further. He asked, "Did you interact much with the patients?"

"Usually, yes. I was the secretary of sorts, along with being the housekeeper. Kept the appointment schedule and took messages and greeted everyone. The doctor kept himself very organized, but especially as he got older, he needed a bit more help sometimes."

He nodded. "Noble work, being a doctor. Saving lives and easing suffering."

"Hmm," Jean hummed.

"You don't agree?"

"No, of course I agree. But I just suppose I've never heard a priest commend a doctor before. You seem to be in a very different line of work, communing with God instead of medical science."

He shrugged. "Different means of easing suffering."

"Though saving lives and saving souls are very different work," she countered.

"Hmm," he hummed.

Jean watched him take another bite of his sandwich and decided not to press him on his meaning.

* * *

After lunch, Lucien assisted Mrs. Beazley in washing the dishes before they moved on to the storage cupboard off the front room. It was strange, working with her like this. He'd not intended her to cook and clean and organize in the rectory. Though he'd not really had much of a clear intention at all when he hired her. All he knew was that he could not continue on as he had. He needed help, and she seemed the perfect person the provide it. She was practical and intelligent. She was kind and stern without being too judgmental. And, best of all, she did not know him. Anyone else in town, they had too much history with him as their priest. But Mrs. Beazley met him the first time in an awkward and vulnerable manner, and she had met him as Lucien. It was not until days later that she'd learned that he could not be Lucien to anyone else. No, he was first, foremost, and only Father Blake.

But what was becoming increasingly apparent to him was not only that he'd made a good choice in hiring Mrs. Beazley for ten pounds a week but that he was genuinely enjoying their time together thus far. Granted, it had only been two days. But it had been two days when he had not wanted to wile away the time in a bottle. Oh he had last night when he'd been on his own, but what else was he supposed to do. But with Mrs. Beazley keeping him supervised and busy, he did not feel the same tell-tale tingling that made him crave a swig of whiskey at ten in the morning and every half hour thereafter.

As the continued to go through those boxes in the cupboard, chatting nicely and being quite productive, Lucien checked his watch and realized it was nearly time for catechism. He said as much to Mrs. Beazley.

"Would you like me to finish up here? There's just a few things left. I can go home when it's done," she offered.

Lucien knew she meant no ill-will by that offer, but he did not like it regardless. The idea of her or anyone else in his private spaces—the only private space afforded to him in this life—made him uneasy. But at the same time, he did not much want to quit her company. "We can work on this tomorrow," he told her. "But would you like to come help with catechism class?"

She frowned slightly. "What would you need me to do?"

"Oh just help me set up the chairs before class and put them back after the children leave. And there's so many of them, I sometimes have trouble keeping them all herded in the right places," he said with a small laugh.

That brightened her quite a bit. "Alright," she agreed. "Let me get my bag, and we can go over to the church."

As they made their way and set up the classroom, Lucien explained to her that their town was small and there were not actually too many children in Catholic families, so they could only manage to have one large class for catechism. He adjusted the curriculum so it rotated every three years, but it meant he was teaching children from ages seven through fifteen, from their First Communion to their Confirmation. "All in all, we've got twenty-three children right now," he told her. "I've had as many as thirty and as few as sixteen. And the most help I've ever gotten is when old Mrs. Williams comes in to help teach hymns."

"You hired me to help. So I'm here to help," Mrs. Beazley told him. He smiled at that.

When the children arrived, Lucien introduced her, saying Mrs. Beazley would be around sometimes to help and left it at that. He did not quite know yet what her role would be. All he knew was that he wanted her there. A kindly adult presence amidst the children. Oh he did love them, each and every one. But it was difficult to be in the mood to spend so much time with so many children for two hours, twice each week.

The lesson for that day was one of the Old Testament, of Jonah and the whale. He told the story with his usual gusto. Some of the older children had gone through this one before, but they all delighted in his animated storytelling of Jonah's refusal to answer God's calling to go to Nineveh, of the wrath of God when Jonah goes on a sea voyage, of the sailors casting Jonah out of the ship when they learn that he is the reason for their bad weather, of the whale swallowing Jonah up until he relents and prays to God for salvation, and of Jonah finally taking up the task of going to Nineveh.

"And what does this story teach us?" he asked the class when he got to the end.

"Listen to God!" said Joseph Collins. Lucien noticed Jean smile affectionately at the boy who was her neighbor.

"And why should we listen to God?" Lucien asked.

That question was slightly harder to answer. "Because bad things happen if you don't," offered Michael Kent.

Lucien nodded. "Anything else?"

Ned, his faithful altar boy, raised his hand and patiently waited to be called on. "I think…Father, is it that God's plan will always work out? Because Jonah did end up in Nineveh, didn't he? So no matter what he did when God first called him, God made sure he got there in the end."

"That's a very good point, Ned. What part do you think Jonah played in all of this, then, if God was just going to get His way anyway?"

No one had a response for that.

After waiting for any last-minute bravery, Lucien delivered the lesson he wanted to impart on his students. "Ned's right, that God's plan will always work out, one way or another. But it still comes down to our choices. Jonah could have died in that whale, but he didn't. He didn't because God rescued him. _Because Jonah prayed for salvation_. Never forget that part of the story. God may have rescued Jonah no matter what, because He needed Jonah to go to Nineveh. But maybe not. We won't ever know, obviously, because that's not how the bible works. But when challenges present themselves, we cannot just give up and wait for God to rescue us. No, we must face our challenges and _choose_ to carry on. God's plan will work out, but only if we help it along."

"But what if we don't know what God's plan is?" asked Sarah Smith.

"That's why we come to catechism to learn these lessons and we pray for guidance. Oftentimes we never know God's plan. But we don't stop trying to find it and help it along anyway. And that is why we have faith," he concluded.

They moved on from there, discussing other matters that were worth exploring. Lucien noticed that Mrs. Beazley looked at him in a peculiar way. She seemed happy, but perhaps a bit suspicious. But when it was time for the children to leave, she helped the little ones with their coats, speaking to them gently and full of kind smiles to send them home. She was very good with them, he could tell.

After they were left alone again, he praised her interactions. "You're quite comfortable around children. Do you have any of your own?"

"Not children anymore. My Christopher is a sergeant in the army and just got married last year. He's twenty-four. My younger son, Jack, is twenty-two," she told him.

"They're very lucky to have you as their mother, I'd wager."

She brushed off his compliment. "It was very hard, after their father died. But I did the best I could."

"I'm sure you did a wonderful job."

She gave a tight smile and otherwise ignored the praise. "You certainly have a way with the children yourself."

"Oh?" He hoped she would explain what she meant. He knew he did have a way with children, but it was always interesting to see how one's traits are perceived by another.

"The way you told that story and led the discussion about Jonah. I've never seen anything like it," she said.

"Well, I don't find much good in just rehashing all the stories and canon laws and church rituals. If anything's going to stick for a child, it's got to have some meaning they can understand. Going through the motions of being Catholic is all well and good, and I know far too many of us get by like that. But if the children have to be here anyway, I'd like to find a way for them to get something from it. Maybe even enjoy it."

"All those children were absolutely enthralled. You're really wonderful with them," she said. She opened her mouth to say something else, but closed it again, choosing to go back to stacking chairs.

Lucien wondered what she wanted to say, but he did not want to push. If he had to guess, he thought she might have had it in her mind to ask him if he had any children. It was probably best she did not ask. But he somehow found himself wishing she had.


	9. Chapter 9

**IX**

In less than a week, Jean began to feel more comfortable in her new role and in her new home. She started each day by getting up, tending to her own bath and breakfast and seeing to her little garden. And then she showed up at the rectory at nine to make breakfast for Father Blake. He had, thus far, never woken in a good mood and never woken entirely sober. Sometimes the hangover was better than others, but not once had she seen him in the morning and thought he might _not_ have been drinking the night before. The closer she got to it all, the more alarming it was. The night she'd found him under the willow tree was not at all an uncommon occurrence. Hopefully he kept himself confined indoors when he drank more often than not, now that he'd discovered this problem. But Jean could not be certain.

Thursday morning was the day that it really bothered her. She'd spent Wednesday assisting the priest in planning his homily for Mass that evening. After breakfast and after they finished their work sorting through the storage cupboard that they'd begun the day before, he asked her to join him in his study inside the church, rather than continue cleaning out the rectory. Knowing that her job was to do as she was asked, she agreed. And all afternoon, they'd worked through what he wanted to say about John the Baptist. They discussed the various things Jean had been taught all her life, about the role of the prophet in preparing people for the coming of Christ, about his role in baptism and preparing the soul for salvation. In the end, Father Blake had decided to use John the Baptist as a jumping off point to discuss the treatment of people between each other, with the prophet as a model for us all to help one another through various trials in our own lives and to not leave our neighbors to wander alone.

Once again, Jean was amazed at the progressive approach that Father Blake took, especially compared to priests that Jean had known before. He looked at scripture with a view of inspiration, seeking out messages that would inspire rather than resigning himself and the whole congregation to sharp reproach.

And after all day of working with him on that fascinatingly optimistic homily, after evening Mass—which Jean would not have otherwise attended but did just so she could see the priest deliver the homily she had helped with—he had wished her goodnight and thanked her for her help and sent her home. And what had he done after that? Gotten himself disgustingly drunk. Again.

She arrived Thursday hoping to find him in a better state after she'd left him the night before in such good spirits. But he was just as surly and discombobulated as always. Perhaps more so. And Jean had not been able to hold her tongue.

"What on earth have you done!?" she asked, upon finding him with red eyes and stinking of alcohol seeping from his pores. She was in the middle of cooking his breakfast when he came stumbling into the kitchen in that terrible state.

"What I do every night," he grumbled, slumping down in the chair to wait for his breakfast without even bothering to get properly bathed and dressed.

"Why?" Jean demanded, turning toward him with her arms folded in disapproval.

"I beg your pardon?" he responded in confusion.

"Why do you do it? What is so overwhelming about your life and so weak about your constitution that you have to resort to poisoning yourself with liquor to the point of unconsciousness every bloody night?" she snapped.

Father Blake looked up at her with a look of pure indignation. "If you don't want to work for me, you can go," he told her coldly.

Jean squared her shoulders and glared back at him. "If you don't want me to work for you, you can ask me to leave."

"So quit," he challenged.

"So fire me," she challenged right back.

He paused for a beat, his hard expression faltering slightly. "I don't want to," he finally answered petulantly.

"Neither do I," she replied.

The priest laid his head on his arms, crossed on top of the table. Jean turned back to the pan on the stove to finish making his breakfast. She still wanted an answer to her question, but it looked as though she would not get one. And despite what he'd said about not wanting to fire her, Jean did not want to tempt him to change his mind. His drunkenness was evidence, more than anything else, that he really did need her. If she were the only person to be allowed to see him this way, she would not allow him to isolate himself even further.

She put the plate on the table for him. "Eat and clean yourself up. We've got more work to do today. I'll start on your bedroom while you wash," she said. She did not wait for a response before turning to make herself a cup of tea while he ate.

With a groan of pain, Father Blake sat up and began to slowly shovel food into his mouth.

Jean fixed her tea and then sat down with him, as she'd done every morning thus far. "We had a drunk like you in Ballarat," she mused. "He wasn't a priest, though. He used to spend a lot of time with the police for falling asleep in public places. I nearly wanted to call the police on you when I first found you. You're lucky I didn't."

"Mmm," he agreed half-heartedly. He obviously wasn't listening to her, though Jean did not really expect him to. But something must have clicked in his mind, for he turned his head to her sharply all of a sudden. "Ballarat?"

"What about it?"

"Is that where you're from? Ballarat?"

"Yes, why?"

He hesitated. "You just never said before. I didn't know you were from Ballarat."

"Does it make a difference?"

"Probably not."

And after that, he went back to his breakfast and they did not speak again.

* * *

Ballarat, imagine that. Lucien had not thought about Ballarat for a single moment in a very long time. But as soon as Mrs. Beazley mentioned it, his mind—though foggy from hangover it may have been—swirled with memories.

His life began in Ballarat. In fact, he was born there, at Ballarat Hospital. His mother had a experienced a difficult pregnancy, he'd been told. A foreign woman with few friends and countless worries, Genevieve Etienne had married a man who promised her happiness and delivered none of it. But he'd given her a child, a son she named for the light he brought her. That was the story, at least.

But Lucien's childhood was one of a bright light snuffed out. His mother had taught him joy and beauty and faith, all the good things of the world. And his father had taught him discipline and fortitude and disappointment, though only one of those lessons had stuck at the time. When his mother had died so suddenly and tragically, Lucien had been cast out from his home and sent far away. He'd returned to Ballarat during school holidays, but he never called it home ever again.

What was the Ballarat that Mrs. Beazley knew? She'd gone to church there, same as Lucien had as a child. He wondered how far apart they were in age, if they had possibly ever seen one another at Mass as children. The old priest from Lucien's childhood, the man who had welcomed all parishioners yet regarded Mrs. Blake with her European manner and heavy accent with contempt. Lucien had never liked him. He'd never considered being a priest because of old Father…what was his name? Morton, was it? Yes, that sounded right. Father Morton. He'd been a cold, strict, stern bastard. Probably not the most charitable of terms to refer to a priest, but Lucien had no memory of Father Morton ever being very charitable himself. The man was probably long dead by now. Didn't make much difference to Lucien.

He thought more about the idea that Mrs. Beazley was from Ballarat, of all places. She'd been a housekeeper to a doctor, she'd said. She may have known Lucien's own father. Not that Lucien's father would ever have a housekeeper. He liked his privacy and he liked his solitude. He'd worked at Ballarat Hospital, from what Lucien could recall. And even if he did have his own practice, he'd likely hire a young man with a university education as his secretary; Thomas Blake was not the sort to ever allow a woman to assist him in any meaningful way.

Those two thoughts about his father were the first he'd spared the man in over a decade. For all Lucien knew, his father was long dead. But just like Father Morton, the fate of Thomas Blake made absolutely no difference to Lucien. Just as Lucien's fate surely made no difference to either of them.

"Mrs. Beazley, what do you know about plants?" he asked suddenly, forcing his mind out of memory and onto the present.

She jumped slightly at his abrupt question. "How do you mean?"

"I think you've mentioned you keep a garden, is that right?"

"Yes," she answered.

"I've got a garden in the back of the rectory. Instead of the bedroom, what would you say to spending the day outside today until catechism?"

A wry smile crossed her face. "If you bathe and get dressed properly, I'll make you a garden that will be the envy of all the parish."

He chuckled, even though the pain in his head throbbed when he did so. "Alright, you have a deal."


	10. Chapter 10

**X**

It was Saturday, and Father Blake had given Jean the day off. On Friday afternoon, after she assisted in putting together the flower arrangements for the next day's baptism, he'd given her an envelope with her weekly wage and told her that he'd see her for Mass on Sunday, if she wanted to attend, and back on Monday morning. A small part of her wondered whether he just wanted her out of his hair so he could drink himself half-blind in peace. But regardless of his reasons, Jean was rather pleased to have the weekend to herself.

She stayed in bed longer than usual that morning. Oh there were things to do, chores to get done, laundry to see to. She needed to go to the market as well. Plenty of things to take care of for herself and her own house when she wasn't busy caring for Father Blake. But all of that could wait just a little while.

Jean stretched like a contented cat as the morning sunlight trickled through the gap in the curtains. Her new bed was certainly the most comfortable she'd ever had in her life. The mattress had been purchased brand new. She'd never had a brand new mattress before. Her bed as a child had been inherited from her older brother. Her bed in her home with Christopher had been purchased secondhand. Her bed in the Blake house had been whatever was already in the guestroom that became her bedroom. But here and now, in her very own house, she had a brand new beautiful, soft, comfortable, wonderful bed. And just for now, Jean was going to revel in it.

But eventually, nature called, and she dragged herself out of that marvelous bed. For the best, to be sure. Jean did not want to become the sort of person who frittered the day away in bed doing nothing. She could still appreciate and love her bed without being in it for too long.

She took her time making breakfast and eating while looking out the back window to her lovely little garden. Jean enjoyed growing things. Maybe that came from living half her life on a farm. The smell of the dirt, the feel of it under her fingernails, the bone-deep sense of exhaustion from spending a day sweating in the sunshine. She loved it all.

Father Blake had led her out to the rectory garden on Thursday morning and essentially given her free reign over it. He obviously could not care less about it, as it was in dire disrepair. But he at least recognized that it should be cared for by someone. After all, it was a lovely little plot of land. Slightly larger than Jean's own garden here. With a bit of work, it could be quite wonderful. There were patches of sun and shade, so all manner of things could be grown there. The watering could be done easily by connecting a hose to the spigot on the backside of the building. All the pieces were there, they just needed to be put together by someone who knew what they were doing. And Jean, in her opinion, was certainly someone who knew what she was doing.

Thinking about the rectory garden gave Jean the perfect idea of what to do with her day. After her lie in and her morning chores, she decided to leave the laundry for the afternoon. She'd go to the market to pick up some things to make for supper, but on her way, she would go to the flower shop.

A tinkling little bell above the door announced her presence. There were a few customers in the store already. The older woman at the counter was helping a man in a smart suit. There was a younger woman browsing around, likely waiting her turn to be assisted.

"Hello there," the shopkeeper said to Jean over the man's shoulder. "Be right with you, dear."

"Oh I'm fine," Jean replied with a polite smile. "Take your time."

The shopkeeper went back to her customer and Jean wandered, gazing at the beautiful bouquets arranged on one side of the shop to be chosen and purchases as-is. Along another wall were a number of plants in pots to be taken home and planted out of doors or else kept inside in their pots. But off to the side was the section Jean was looking for.

"I don't know about any of this, do you?" came a conspiratorial voice on Jean's left.

She looked away from the rows and rows of seed packets to the young woman who had drifted towards her. "Actually," Jean replied, "I do know a bit about growing things."

The woman gasped. "Do you? Do you think you could help me?" she begged.

The worry on the young woman's face was enough to melt Jean's face. "I could certainly try. What is it you're looking to do?"

"Well I just got married, you see…"

"Congratulations," Jean interrupted.

The newlywed beamed with happiness and, perhaps unconsciously, spun her wedding ring around her finger with her thumb in a fidgeting fashion. "Thank you. And Archie, my husband, he says a wife should grow flowers to have around. He used to buy me flowers, you see, and I asked him last week why he doesn't do that anymore, and he said it's because we're married and bought a house and we've got a garden, and why should he spend money on flowers if I could grow them myself?"

Jean did not like the sound of this Archie one bit, but this girl couldn't have been older than twenty. She surely was just happy to be married at all and was still dazzled by the attention of a man and the novelty and pride of being a wife that reality hadn't quite sunk in yet. But Jean would not spoil that naïve little bubble for her. So, choosing not to comment on Archie's unfortunate opinions, Jean asked, "What sort of flowers do you like?"

"Roses are pretty, aren't they? And I like irises. Those are the blue-purple ones, right? And maybe…oh gosh I don't know what they're called. They're white, sometimes. And I think they come in pink and red? Pretty little flowers…"

"Begonias?"

"I think?"

Jean scanned the seed packets to find the begonias and pointed at the drawing on the packet. "These?"

"Yes, I love those!"

"Begonias are a specialty of mine," Jean told her. "In the town where I used to live, they had a begonia festival every year, and I entered my plant one year and got an honorable mention."

"Oh my, you do know what you're doing!"

Jean smiled. "And I'd be happy to help you learn about flowers and tending a garden, if you like. You can buy some seeds and prepare the soil and plant them and see them grow."

The young woman's eyes went wide. "That seems difficult."

"Only if you don't know what you're doing. But with a little attention and care, I'm sure you'll be alright."

"Would you really help me?"

"Of course. That's what neighbors are for, isn't it?"

The sweet girl looked as though she were about to cry with relief. "Oh you're wonderful, Mrs…."

"Beazley," Jean supplied. "I'm Mrs. Beazley. But you can call me Jean."

"I'm Abigail Mor—Harris. I almost said Morris. I used to be Abbie Morris, but now I'm Mrs. Harris. Abigail."

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Abigail," Jean said. The two women smiled and shook hands.

Jean then collected some seeds for Abigail to start her garden. Begonias and rose bushes and irises, as she liked, but also some other varieties as well. Jean also chose some she wanted for the rectory garden. Begonias, again, along with wisteria, daffodils, daisies, and lavender. As an afterthought, she also got some herb seeds. Basil and rosemary and thyme. Those would be nice additions for the rectory, and Jean was sure that Father Blake would not mind if she took clippings of the fresh herbs to cook with for herself.

Abigail asked all sorts of questions, wanting to know everything she possibly could about starting her garden. Jean did her best to answer, but a lot of things depended on the garden conditions—amount of water and light and so forth. "Look, why don't I come over and help you get started."

"Oh would you!? Only I don't want to be any trouble, Jean."

But Jean waved off that concern. "Nonsense, it's no trouble at all. I can come by tomorrow, if you like. Do you go to church on Sundays?"  
A blush came over Abigail's face and she stared at the floor. "No, actually," she mumbled.

Once again, Jean did not indulge that embarrassment. "That's alright. I only ask because I wouldn't come first thing if you were going to be at church. I'm perfectly content to skip Mass tomorrow and come over at about nine tomorrow. It'll be best to get things done early in the day so we aren't out in the heat."

Abigail looked at Jean somewhat adoringly. "You're so smart, Jean."

"I've had a lot of experience to teach me. You're still young. You'll learn," Jean assured her.

The two ladies each paid for the seeds they wanted. The shopkeeper apologized for being detained, but Abigail assured her that Jean was a huge help. After that, Jean took down Abigail's address and a little note scribbled on a sheet of paper given by the shopkeeper for directions to the Harris home. Jean told her she'd be there at nine, and the two ladies parted for the day.

Jean went to the market for her food shopping feeling quite happy indeed. She was glad she'd gone to the flower shop. And she was even gladder that she had made plans for Sunday. Speaking of which, she'd tell Mrs. Collins on her way back home that she would not be accompanying them for church in the morning. Hopefully they'd understand. But Jean had gardening to do with Mrs. Abigail Harris. And if Jean wasn't mistaken, she was rather sure she'd made a friend.


	11. Chapter 11

**XI**

Sunday arrived, as it always did, with a flurry of morning activity. Lucien arrived early to the church to make sure Peter and Ned knew what to do. He greeted Mrs. Williams and asked her what hymns she had in mind for the day. The program never changed, and if Lucien cared a bit more, perhaps he would comment on it to her. But it was simpler to just leave it.

He made his way to his study before parishioners arrived. He did not like to have them see him before he was properly fortified. The whiskey in his desk drawer would do that.

But he was actually looking forward to Mass today. It was silly, of course. There was nothing special about Mass today as opposed to any other week. But he'd spent most of Saturday after the baptism working on his homily, and he thought this might be a good one.

And, of course, he'd not seen Mrs. Beazley since Friday. It was a silly thing, but he found he sort of missed her. He had gotten used to seeing her every day, talking to her and having her fuss about things and offer her advice—solicited or not. And, of course, she was rather pleasant to look at. Though that last bit he'd never admit. He was a priest, after all. He'd given up on such things. Still, he was a man, and he did appreciate beauty wherever it could be found.

The sounds of the choir drifted through to him, and Lucien knew it was time for him to get things started. He finished off his glass of whiskey, donned his green vestments, and made his way back to the church altar.

Mass proceeded just as it always did. But when Lucien looked out into the faces of his congregation, he did not see the one face he was looking for. The Collins family was there in their usual pew with Mrs. Collins watching in rapt attention, Mr. Collins appearing disinterested, Joseph Collins looking happy and enthusiastic, and Maggie Collins staring at Peter. There did not appear to be anyone accompanying them to church this week. Because last week, they'd brought their neighbor. Mrs. Beazley was not sitting with the family this week.

He continued to look for her but had to resign himself to the fact that she was not there. She had not told him for certain that she would be coming to Mass, after all, and he'd told her he would not need her services again until Monday. But he had assumed that she would attend Mass. Perhaps just his wishful thinking? Or did she intend on being there and something had waylaid her? Was she ill or injured? Likely not; Mrs. Beazley was far too practical and intelligent to let anything unfortunate befall her. Still, he would perhaps inquire after her to Mrs. Collins, if she came to speak to him after the service.

The homily did not turn out as good as he was expecting, though by the time he reached that part of Mass, he was back to his usual disinterested state of mind. The homily was fine, Lucien just didn't care anymore. And the end of Mass finally was upon him, and he was very much looking forward to everyone leaving so he could be left in peace again.

As it turned out, Mrs. Collins did not stop to speak to him before the family left church that day. Lucien was left to wonder about Mrs. Beazley on his own. But he'd see her tomorrow when she arrived in the morning as usual. At least he assumed he would. If not, he'd then make further inquiries.

The altar boys cleaned up after Mass. One or two volunteers did a bit of upkeep work on the church building. Ned's father was a carpenter and did most of the repairs that required a proper professional. Lucien left them to it. It was his church, but he did not like to micromanage. Because really, it was everyone's church. St. Catherine's belonged to the parish and Lucien was merely its keeper for the time being. What a sorry, pathetic position to be in.

The weather was fine that day, so while people were busy in the church, Lucien wandered outside. He took a look at the little garden behind the rectory that Mrs. Beazley had spent two days clearing out. Where there was once detritus and dead plants and weeds overflowing, there was now a collection of plots each cleanly demarcated. The ground had been hard and cracked, but Mrs. Beazley had instructed him to get her a hose and a few garden tools from the shed where he'd left them, and she had watered and hoed the soil so it now filled the plots with crumbling dirt just waiting to be planted. It looked very nice, and he was pleased that she had accomplished so much in so little time. He wondered what she would do next with the garden, what plants she thought would do well there. She had told him that she used to live on a farm, so she was quite knowledgeable about growing things. Lucien had no such understanding, growing up the son of a doctor and being sent to posh boarding schools all over the world. Come to think of it, Lucien had never grown a single thing in his life. He would do well to watch Mrs. Beazley and learn from her. After all, how often did he get the opportunity to learn anything new nowadays?

But there he was thinking about Mrs. Beazley again. That wouldn't do. Lucien took himself indoors where he could shut himself in the rectory for the rest of the afternoon. He put on one of his many jazz albums, now nicely organized, and hummed along while he made himself a bit of something for lunch. Quite a late lunch, actually. He removed his collar and cassock so he was just in his trousers and shirt and feeling much more himself, and sat down to eat his fill.

The sun was low in the sky when he started his drinking. Sitting alone in his usual armchair with his music and his whirring thoughts. The whiskey quieted him. It kept his thoughts to the simpler things and it blotted out the nightmares. And really, that was the most important part.

The record ended after nightfall. The bottle still had a few more rounds left in it. He'd had enough that his vision was going blurry. Lucien smiled to himself. That was a nice spot to be in, he found. The world was no longer his concern. He himself was no longer his own concern. His limbs felt heavy and yet his worries were weightless. One more glass, he thought, and then sleep would overtake him.

But somehow, something was still awake and alive in the back of his mind. Something reminded him that tomorrow was Monday, and Mrs. Beazley would be coming by first thing. And he had wanted to be able to help her in the garden, to learn. And so, instead of having that last glass of whiskey to steal consciousness from him and leave him passed out in his chair, Lucien put the stopper back in the bottle. He stood up, slightly stumbling in the process, and put the bottle back on the shelf. He took his glass to the kitchen and filled it with water and drank it all down before filling it up a second time. He even washed the glass and managed to put it way before shuffling down to the bathroom where he brushed his teeth and used the loo. And that night, Lucien put on his pyjamas and got into bed and fell asleep on his own accord.

The sun woke him the following morning—in all his diligence, he'd forgotten to draw the curtains. But he felt, for perhaps the first time in recent memory, refreshed and ready to start the day. He got up and bathed and shaved and dressed all before nine o'clock.

Mrs. Beazley arrived right at her usual time and found him sitting at the kitchen table having a cup of tea.

"Oh!" she greeted in surprise. "You're up."

He nodded. "I am indeed. I even managed to make some tea."

Her intelligent eyes scanned the counters and tabletop of the kitchen before looking back at his face. "Where's my tea?" she asked.

Such a statement startled him. It had not even crossed his mind to make her tea. He of course knew what time she usually arrived, and he knew she always had tea while he ate the breakfast she made him. Why had he not made her a cup of tea? Why, when going to make tea first thing in the morning only five minutes before she arrived, did he only make a single cup of tea for himself?

When he didn't respond, the bustled past him. "Never mind," she muttered. She went right to the refrigerator and took out the things to start on his breakfast.

Lucien just sat there, confused and a little disappointed in himself. A strange turn of events, to be sure. But as his displeasure with himself wore off, he remembered his myriad of thoughts from the day before. "You were missed at Mass yesterday," he noted.

She turned to glance at him with a curious smile on her face. Perhaps she noticed that he conspicuously avoided saying that it was he who missed her. "I met a young woman on Saturday at the flower shop who asked for my help in planting her garden. I spent all day with her, actually," Mrs. Beazley told him.

"You've been getting quite a bit of gardening under your belt," he noted. "Perhaps today isn't a good day to start planting in the garden here."

But Mrs. Beazley disabused him of that notion right away. She told him that she'd met Abigail Harris while buying seeds for the rectory garden and was looking forward to putting her plans into motion. She also went on and on about the things she'd helped Abigail with, and her day spent at the Harris house with Mrs. Harris, Abigail's mother-in-law, who liked Abigail much more than she liked her own son, Archie. Lucien knew Archie Harris. Archie had been an altar boy when Lucien had first come to the parish, and Archie had quite liked the old priest that Lucien replaced. Archie did not like the new priest and quit his position and quit coming to church very soon after Lucien arrived. At the time, he'd felt badly about it. But Mrs. Harris, who now seemed to very much like her new daughter-in-law, told Lucien that Archie took after his father, who had been very strict and very Catholic and had died in the war. Mrs. Harris seemed nice enough at the time, though was not a churchgoer. The same seemed to still hold true from Mrs. Beazley's description.

It cheered Lucien immensely to hear her talk about how she'd spent her Sunday. He like that she was not particularly devoted in the religious sense and did not seem at all bothered by missing Mass in favor of assisting a new friend. The parishioners who were deeply religious tended to annoy him. They were at Confession at least once a week, which Lucien found to be pointless and exhausting. Mrs. Beazley had not mentioned Confession, and Lucien was glad of it. Whatever sins Mrs. Beazley had committed were her own business, and he did not wish to pry. And even more than that, he wanted to believe that she had not committed any sins over which she was particularly worried, for even worse than having to hear her confess her sins to him would be giving her penance to absolve herself of them. This woman had seen him drunk and hungover and angry and a downright mess. A man like that had absolutely no business presiding over the sins of a kind, strong woman like Mrs. Beazley.

Then again, Lucien had to remind himself that he was not a man. He was a priest. And he was trapped in his duty, which he would perform when called upon. He just really hoped that such duties would not be called upon by Mrs. Beazley.


	12. Chapter 12

**XII**

It was raining that day. A bit early in the year for it, but not too unseasonable. Jean was extremely glad that she had finished the last of the planting in the rectory garden the day before. Now, she was only worried that her seeds would be drowned.

Because they couldn't do anything out of doors, Father Blake invited Jean to help him inside the church. He had to be available for Confession, should anyone come by, but he did not expect much in this weather. She dusted the altar, scrubbed some things, rearranged some decorations. She also noted that the flowers left a lot to be desired. Well, when the garden started blooming—both hers and the one behind the rectory—she could see to that.

Father Blake seemed to be in a good mood. He'd only greeted her hungover once in the last week. He was much more pleasant when he wasn't grumbling in pain and exhaustion. Surely a well-functioning liver had to count for something. She did not know if he'd stopped drinking altogether, but she did see that he was passing out drunk less than before. And for Jean, that was surely the sign of a job well done. He'd hired her to help, and she seemed to be accomplishing that goal.

The morning rolled by and no one came for Confession. The priest closed up the confessional and joined Jean in her tasks. At that point, she was wiping down a layer of dust on the upright piano against the wall. Presumably the choir only used it to rehearse. Though, in her opinion, they clearly hadn't done much rehearsing at all.

His fingers darted over the keys in a simple little melody. Jean smiled. "Do you play?"

"Not much. I learned as a child. My dad was a virtuoso. Very strict. So I wasn't inclined to take it too seriously. I ended up playing the drums."

Jean could not help but laugh at that.

"You find that funny?"

"Yes, actually. I can't imagine a priest playing the drums."

"Well, I wasn't a priest then."

That certainly made sense. So much she'd learned about this man made him seem less and less like a priest. He was, so often, the Lucien she'd met under the willow tree and only in the midst of others the Father Blake who ran St. Catherine's. She smiled, liking these little glimpses she got to see of him like this. "Will you play something for me?"

"Only if you'll sing with me," he countered.

"Oh alright," she conceded. She came to stand beside the piano, putting her dusting cloth down on top of it.

Father Blake looked positively boyish in his enthusiasm as he sat down on the rickety piano bench. When was the last time someone had asked him to play anything? She wondered if anyone had ever sung with him in a very long time.

His fingers played a few quick scales, getting the feel for the piano. He looked up at her to see if she was ready, and she gave a small nod. He turned back to the keys and began to play. Jean had assumed he would play a hymn, something they'd both know. But of course, she should have known better now. After cleaning out his parlor and finding all those jazz records, of course he'd immediately choose an old jazz song.

He began to sing, "Holding hands at midnight, 'neath the starry sky. Nice work if you can get it, and you can get it if you try."

Jean took the second verse. "Strolling with that one girl, sighing sigh after sigh. Nice work if you can get it, and you can get it if you try."

They sang the bridge together. "Just imagine someone waiting at the cottage door. Where two hearts become one, who could ask for anything more?"

The two of them were smiling as Jean continued on the melody line and the priest harmonized. "Loving one who loves you and then taking that vow. Nice work if you can get, and if you get it, won't you tell me how?"

Father Blake gave a little flourish on the keys at the end before looking up at her with a beaming smile. "You are a marvelous singer, Mrs. Beazley."

She laughed happily. "Thank you. You play beautifully. That was such fun. I didn't realize I still knew all the words to that song. It's been so long since I've heard it."

"You did it perfectly. Shall we try another?"

"We really should be getting back to work…" she protested weakly.

"Nonsense, there's plenty of time for that. What's another old song you like?"

She was just so charmed by his enthusiasm that she couldn't help herself. "Goodness, I'm not sure. I haven't had a sing-song like this in ages. Doctor Blake had a piano and he played often before he got sick, but it was always piano concertos and sonatas and things. Beautiful classical music, but certainly nothing one would ever sing to."

The priest went rigid and looked at her with wide, hard eyes. "What did you say?" he asked sharply.

"My employer in Ballarat, Doctor Blake. Oh I never thought of that before. Doctor Blake, Father Blake. How silly. Of course, it's a common name."

"Doctor Thomas Blake of Ballarat was who you worked for? The doctor in whose house you lived and worked?" he asked, practically spitting the words with vitriol.

Jean could not quite follow the immediate and intense change of mood. "Yes, why?"

"I think you should leave now, Mrs. Beazley," he commanded. He stood up. His expression was stormy and fierce.

"But I'm not…"

"We're quite finished for today," he interrupted. "Go. Now."

Her first instinct was to not ruffle any feathers and to just leave and let him calm down and find out tomorrow what all the fuss was about. But instead, she stood her ground. "Why?" she demanded in a strong voice. As soon as the word left her mouth, she felt like she was about to be chastised. Her stomach went in knots as he towered over her, all brawn and terrifying power.

But his voice did not shout at her. No, it came from his mouth with a quiet, hissing anger that almost frightened her even more. "Because," he said, "your Doctor Blake was my father."

"Your…what?" Such a prospect never occurred to her, and Jean was suddenly too stunned to be nervous.

"Get out!" he bellowed, pointing to the door. Now he was shouting. Jean did not linger any longer. She would certainly let him cool down for now. He didn't want her near him for whatever reason upon hearing this information, and Jean herself needed a bit of time to figure it all out.

She grabbed her handbag and hurried out of the front double doors of the church. She'd forgotten that it was raining out. It hadn't been when she went to the rectory that morning, and Father Blake had let her borrow an umbrella to cross the yard to the church. She did not have an umbrella now.

But never mind. Jean wanted to be as far away from the church as she could right now. She half-ran through the pouring rain, taking a moment's solace beneath the relative shelter of the willow tree before dashing back out and going the few blocks back to her house.

As she made her way home, she paid careful attention to keep from slipping and falling and getting any wetter than she needed to. Her mind was mercifully focused. But as soon as she unlocked her front door and reached the shelter of her little house, she felt assaulted by the myriad of thoughts that bombarded her.

How as it that Father Blake was Doctor Blake's son? Had the doctor lied to her when he said his son had died in the war? Or had the priest lied to his father? Had Doctor Blake believed his son to be dead? If so, why hadn't Father Blake ever corrected that mistake? How had he not seen his own father since the war? Or was there something darker at play? She tried to think about what either man had ever told her about the other, not realizing that she would know them both so very well. Though perhaps she did not know either of them as well as she'd thought. What was the truth of their circumstance? What had happened to cause them to not see or speak to one another, to have one believe the other dead for nearly two decades?

Jean slumped down on her sofa, not even really noticing that she was soaked to the bone. This house and this sofa, she'd bought everything with her inheritance from Doctor Blake. He'd left it all to her because he had no family. Or so he thought. Or so he acted? Did he know he had his son living only a few towns away? Had he chosen to treat his son as dead and left everything to Jean instead? Or had the priest led his father to that belief, giving him no choice but to leave his estate to Jean when he thought he had no one else?

But sitting there, soaking wet, was not a valuable use of her time. She stood up, knowing she needed to take off her wet things and take a bath. And she would do just that. She would not dally. She would not wallow. She would not allow the pit of guilt forming in her stomach to distract her. No, there were things to be done. Being home earlier than usual would let her get some laundry done and perhaps some vacuuming. Yes, that's what she'd do. She'd take a bath and start a load of wash and vacuum. And whatever truth about Doctor Blake and Father Blake that was left to discover could wait until tomorrow. Jean could not allow herself to worry about any of that now.


	13. Chapter 13

**XIII**

As soon as Mrs. Beazley left and Lucien was alone with his inexplicable outrage, he felt himself at something of a loss. In truth he did not know why he was angry at her. She did not know that she had worked for his father, she did not know that her former employer's son was now the drunken failure of a priest she now worked for. Whatever Lucien felt, it was not her fault.

But a deep rage settled within him nonetheless. He shoved aside the old piano bench, not caring if it broke with the force he applied to it. He stormed out of the church toward the rectory.

It was raining. He left his umbrella inside and did not bother to go retrieve it. For a moment he just stood in the back of the church and let the rain beat down on him. There was something poetic about it, being drenched and soaked outside while he felt his feelings drown him inside.

He'd given a moment's thought to his father when Mrs. Beazley had mentioned Ballarat a while back. But he'd not thought to make the connection. He never dreamed the old man would ever dare have a housekeeper living with him. That thought was distressing enough, the idea that any woman had lived in that house after his mother died. That house was hers from to bottom. The furniture was all what Thomas and Genevieve had chosen together when they'd first moved there after their marriage. The surgery and study were all his, of course, as Lucien's bedroom was his own. The studio where Genevieve had painted had been closed and locked after her death, for it was too painful for Thomas to do anything about it. That had upset Lucien as a boy, wanting so much to be able to return to the space his mother had occupied, to feel her presence around him after she was gone. But he'd understood, later. He understood the pain it would have caused to have that room open, to have done away with her things, to have gone in there and known she would never set brush to canvas ever again. He understood that now all too well. But the rest of the house had been hers, too. He had memories of his mother in every corner. Perhaps no one else would have known, but Lucien and Thomas had. And the idea that another woman's taste had somehow been inserted into those rooms? Even if it was Mrs. Beazley, the idea that it was anyone at all was displeasing.

The rain seeped through the layers of Lucien's attire. His cassock and his shirt and his trousers were all wet, and the chill was reaching his skin. He didn't mind for now. It gave him something else to think about as he tried to order his thoughts.

Surely Mrs. Beazley had taken good care of the old Blake house. She certainly took care of St. Catherine's now, and she must have shown as much if not more devotion to her former position. He could not imagine she had overturned things that were once Genevieve's and made them her own. No, she would not have done that.

But as he thought of Mrs. Beazley having been his father's housekeeper, he realized two very striking things. First, she had always spoken of her former employer in kind, respecting terms, calling him a good man and a good doctor. Well, the latter had certainly been true in Lucien's experience, but the former was difficult to hear. Because Thomas Blake had not been a good man, to Lucien's mind. He had been hard and stern and unforgiving and often unfeeling. He had not shown kindness when others displayed weakness. Lucien was nothing more than a disappointment to his father, and Thomas never let him forget it. The two men had not spoken face to face in almost thirty years. And the last correspondence between them had been a letter after the war and a very curt reply. Thomas never sought out his son ever again, not in fifteen years. And he gave Lucien no incentive to reach out either.

And that was the second thing Lucien realized. He would never again be able to reach out to his father, to try and mend anything between them. Because he knew that Mrs. Beazley had moved to this town because her former employer had passed away and left her his estate to make a new start for himself. His father was dead. And even though it had occurred months ago, he was just learning of it now. There was no grief in that realization. Nothing changed by knowing that Thomas Blake was dead. The only loss was in the possibility of a reconciliation, and that was not something Lucien had ever really held onto. He wasn't even bothered that Thomas had left everything to Mrs. Beazley. Lucien didn't want or need anything from his father, certainly not by way of inheritance. And really, he'd not expected anything anyway. But the one thing that did irritate him, the one thing that did cause a sinking sadness in his heart amidst the anger and frustration was the knowledge that Mrs. Beazley had happily inherited everything from Thomas Blake _because he had no family_. He had treated Lucien as though he'd died. He had so thoroughly abandoned Lucien that he had let everyone, even his own housekeeper, believe that he had no son. The final show of his disappointment. The final expression of Lucien as a failure.

And he had failed. Lucien knew he had failed. He had failed at everything his entire life. Failed as a son, failed as a student, failed as a musician, failed as a doctor, failed as a soldier, failed as a husband, failed as a father, failed as a priest, failed as a man. Failed, failed, failed.

The shame rose up in him like bile, making him shiver in the cold and wet. He felt hot. He felt sticky. He felt an all-too familiar feeling of regret and blood in his mouth. He had to escape. He had to get out. He couldn't breathe. He needed release. He needed relief.

Lucien stumbled to the rectory. The mud was squelching all over his shoes, yet another memory that nauseated him. But he made it to the front door. He slammed it closed behind him and stripped off his wet clothes as he tripped through the small house. His shoes were discarded by the door. His cassock was flung off in the parlor. He grabbed two bottles of whiskey, one in each hand as he went back to his bedroom. There, he dropped the new bottle on the bed and took a hearty swig from the one that he'd left half-full the other night. Coughing at the sting of the alcohol and gasping for air, Lucien tore the buttons of his shirt in his desperate need to get it off him. His trousers and wet socks joined the shirt in a heap on the ground.

At last, left in only his trunks and vest, he slumped on the ground. He let the whiskey slide down his throat and numb him from the inside out. He was breathing heavily and his heart was pounding. The wet from the rain mixed with his own sweat, leaving him with a desperate, horrible feeling. But he could not bring himself to get up. He just leaned back against the end of his bed and tried to take deep breaths. He finished that bottle very quickly.

When he felt able, he reached up behind him to retrieve the unopened bottle. He took the first swallow as he steeled himself for what he knew he had to do. It was time. It had been too long. And nothing good could come from letting it go for too long.

From where he was sitting on the floor, Lucien could reach beneath the bed and pull out a very old trunk. It was dusty from neglect, and he felt a pang of guilt from that. He really should not have left it so long that it collected dust. With another swallow of whiskey, he unlatched the trunk and opened it.

It was the smell that always got him first. That musty smell of old paper. But hidden there was another scent, a floral hint long faded, the smell of flowers that had withered and died. At one time, the smell of fresh tropical flowers filled the air every day of his life. His happy life. The smell of flowers on the breeze in Singapore where his wife and child had laughed and smiled when he held them in his arms. But those flowers had died, just like that life.

Lucien picked up the pages and flipped through them. The photographs that had been salvaged. He and Mei Lin on their wedding day. She had been so beautiful, they'd both been so proud and so happy. As he sat on the floor now, drinking more whiskey, he thought of her, his haughty, intelligent bride. The way she had commanded every space she inhabited, the way she, even as a Chinese woman, could seem so at home wherever she was. That pride and that strength had made him fall head over heels in love with her. She had been, without a doubt, the perfect wife for Major Lucien Blake.

He picked up another photograph. A strangled sob emanated from the back of his throat. He choked it back by swallowing even more whiskey. His fingertips gently traced the smiling, laughing face of his beautiful daughter. The last photograph ever taken of her was here in his hands. She had grown from a chubby, happy baby into a lithe little girl. Li had captured his whole heart the moment she was born. He would have given anything to make her happy, done whatever it took to keep her safe, even died to protect her. But he had failed. He had failed them both. Just as he had failed everything.

As he kept drinking, tears began to slide down his cheeks and catch in his beard. He nearly missed in trying to wipe them away. The whiskey was affecting his motor skills. But he still was not too numb to feel the scratch of his beard beneath his hand. He'd grown a beard as an officer, after being teased by his fellow soldiers for his baby face. And Mei Lin had liked it, had enjoyed having a husband look so distinguished, to live up to the vision of the proud officer she'd married. Now, he kept the beard for different reasons. He'd never try to live clean-shaven ever again.

With the photographs of his wife and child propped up in the lid of the trunk, Lucien explored the other contents. The letters he'd written but never sent whose words he had memorized over the years. The drawings he had done of the horrors he'd witnessed in the camps in the misguided belief that putting them on the page would take them out of his mind. But sights like that, of men being tortured and women being brutally raped and children being slaughtered, those were not images he would ever be free of. He'd had it in his mind once to draw it all and burn the pages, letting the memories float away with the ash. But he could not bring himself to set fire to his drawings. He could not bring himself to try and forget those memories. He lived with them because he had to. He had failed and he needed to be reminded. For who could say what terrible things could occur if he ever did allow himself to forget?

The pages began to grow fuzzy in his vision. His limbs felt too heavy. His eyes did not want to remain open. Blackness in every form crept over him. And before he knew it, everything was gone.


	14. Chapter 14

**XIV**

Jean arrived just at nine, as usual. The rain had stopped, leaving everything with that fresh, wet scent. The sun was shining. It might be nice to work out in the garden, to see how her plots had fared in the storm. But of course, all of that would depend on whether or not Father Blake would allow her to talk to him. She had done a rather good job of putting it out of her head for the afternoon and evening while she was at home, choosing instead to read a book in bed while the rain poured outside.

But now it was a new day, and there was work to do. Breakfast for the priest and then to the garden.

She opened the front door as she always did—a priest did not keep any doors locked, after all—and immediately Jean knew that today was not a day like any other.

There was mud tracked everywhere. With the rain, that might not otherwise be unusual. But there were various articles of clothing littered on the floor in a path leading down the hall to the bedroom. Jean put her purse and jacket in their usual place by the door and carefully made her way further inside. It did not escape her notice, as she passed, that there were no bottles of whiskey on the sideboard. Yesterday, there had been two.

"Father?" she called out softly. She did not often possess such a tentative tone, but the eerie silence amidst the mess made her a touch nervous. The lack of any response increased her unease.

Jean went to the bedroom where the door was left ajar. She knocked gently. "Father?" she asked once more.

Hearing no protest, she went inside. And there she found the priest wearing nothing but his trunks and vest, passed out on the floor beside an open trunk. He had one hand clutching an almost-empty bottle of whiskey. A completely spent one lay beside him. His body was slumped at an odd angle against the end of the bed. His mouth was open against the comforter, creating a small patch of drool.

All in all, it was one of the most pitiable and disappointing scenes she had ever come across. "Oh Lucien," she whispered. For that was who she saw passed out in the bedroom similarly to how she'd seen him passed out under the willow tree. This was Lucien. Father Blake had been discarded at the door with his cassock.

Immediately, Jean knew she could not just leave him there. She had to do something to help, find some way to get him up and awake. And as she tried to figure out a means to do so, her eye drifted to the trunk open beside him. Inside were stacks of pages, scraps of papers, and very old photographs. Two such photographs were propped up inside the lid of the trunk. She glanced at the unconscious priest once more before bending to pick up the photos for a better look.

The first was a little girl. Maybe four or five years old. Chinese, she looked, though Jean would not know the difference between any of the Asiatic races. But she was a lovely little girl. Long black hair, shining even in the old picture. She had squinting, smiling eyes and a bright grin and adorable little dimples.

The next photo was of a woman. Asian, like the girl. But she did not have the same giddy, laughing expression. This woman had an almost secretive smile. Very subtle and engaging. Jean had not seen many women who looked like that. Her eyes were so dark and so differently shaped than what was familiar. Her hair was thick and dark and looked heavy. Luxurious. Everything about the woman in that picture looked proud and wealthy and privileged. Jean was entranced just by looking at her.

With still no sign of movement from the trunk's owner, Jean knelt down to examine the other pages. There were a number of letters, it seemed. Addressed to someone called Li, saying all sorts of things about regrets and lost hopes and apologies. It was all in very vague terms, so far as Jean could tell, though she was not reading anything too closely. What she did notice, however, that the handwriting was all that of Father Blake. And those letters to Li were signed _Papa_.

Jean shifted a few other pages, finding drawings that made her breath hitch. A soldier holding a severed head by the hair. Spikes of a fence with the bodies of children. Tears filled Jean's eyes and she quickly moved those pages aside, blinking rapidly.

There was another photograph that almost looked like it might be of a wedding. She reached to retrieve it.

"What are you doing?"

She gasped loudly as the sharp, hoarse sound of his voice startled her. Jean looked up to see Father Blake with bloodshot, half-open eyes. But the look in those eyes was one of disgust, and Jean felt any icy grip on her insides.

* * *

"You're fired," Lucien spat.

"I…what?" Mrs. Beazley replied in shocked confusion.

"Your services are no longer required, Mrs. Beazley. Not your useful ones or your snooping one," he snarled, hoping that explained the situation sufficiently and she would get out.

"What are you talking about?" she asked again. She stood, towering over him, looking down with a mix of concern and fear. Lucien knew that look. It was the look of pity that had gone so far as to make one uncomfortable. He knew that look very well. And he wouldn't allow anyone, particularly her, look at him that way ever again.

"You bloody heard me," he growled.

She gaped at him, likely trying to find some kind of retort that might operate under the circumstances. But Lucien would not give her the opportunity.

It took him more effort than he liked, but he hauled himself up off the floor. The room was spinning and he felt as though he was going to be sick in the next ten seconds, but he tamped it down. He might have needed to cling to the end of the bed, despite having made it to a standing position. "Get out!" he insisted. Christ, he was giving himself a headache with his own shouting.

Mrs. Beazley's eyes went wide. Eyes that he usually quite enjoyed looking at, but now just held such contempt and such distaste that he could barely look back at her. "I don't know what any of this is," she said, her voice low and dangerous. "And I don't know what's happened to lead you to this. But I do know that you are killing yourself, slowly but surely. And hating yourself and hating me aren't going to save you. Though from what I've seen, it doesn't much look like you want saving. More irony of the priest."

And with that, she turned on her heel and walked out of the bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

That sound was so sharp, it caused his teeth to hurt. But really, everything hurt. He'd consumed over an entire bottle of whiskey while drowning his sorrows that evening. It was a wonder he wasn't dead. Mrs. Beazley had certainly been right about that, he was slowly killing himself. And she was also right that he wasn't much concerned about being saved from that fate. No one would mind if he did manage his own demise. Though perhaps something a bit less messy. The parish deserved better than to know that their priest had died wearing nothing but his underclothes and wallowing over a box of memories and drowning in liquor. Though nothing much of interest ever happened in town, and that might provide fodder for weeks.

Oh who was he kidding? He wasn't going anywhere. If anything, Lucien Blake was incapable of being killed. Others more motivated than he had tried to finish him off. But here he was. At one time, he might have thought it was God who saved him. A sign from the Lord that he was meant to live and meant to serve. Such a thought felt like utter nonsense now.

But at least now he was awake and alone again. He tried to remember what day it was. Possibly Thursday. Maybe Saturday? There had been no catechism the night before, so it wasn't Wednesday or Friday. Definitely not Sunday. He'd not performed a Mass yesterday…so it must be Saturday.

"You see, you don't need anyone's help. You got there right on your own, Father," he muttered to himself. Yes, it was entirely pathetic, but it was all he had for the time being.

In the harsh light of day, Lucien was properly ashamed for giving in to the darkness last night. Memories had overtaken him and overwhelmed him, and he had been no match for them. Feeling rightfully ashamed of himself, Lucien managed to crawl around to pick up the things that belonged in his trunk. Things were out of order. Mrs. Beazley must have been rifling through it. What more did she know of him now? What sorts of hideous things did she know of Doctor Blake's boy that she now knew were about him? What had she gleaned from the items she looked at, the few possessions of a priest who had sworn off the secular world? And how little did she think of him now after having discovered him in such a state?

Well, none of that mattered now. He'd well and truly destroyed any good feeling he and Mrs. Beazley had shared. And it was probably for the best that he dismissed her. She would only continue to make him feel as though he should be better, and he would only continue to fall short and disappoint them both. Yes, probably for the best. Though, for a time, it had been nice to share those little moments with her. Back before she had nosed her way in too deep and shattered the last remaining vestiges of her respect for him.

Lucien put the trunk back in order without allowing himself to look at or think about any of the contents. He shut and latched the lid and pushed it underneath the bed. Just that task alone, with his monstrous hangover, was almost too much. He flopped down on top of the bed, breathing heavily. God, but he felt miserable. He was miserable. Miserable excuse of a man.

Once everything stopped spinning and his heart was not pounding at such a dangerous rate, he pushed himself back up again. He successfully managed to stumble into the bathroom by remaining hunched over and grabbing on to walls. The sound of the water from the bath faucet was nearly too much, but Lucien knew he needed to muscle through. He stripped off his remaining items of clothing and gently lowered himself into the water. The faucet was turned off and Lucien rested his head against the cold tile wall. He closed his eyes and tried to remember to keep breathing. And the world fell away once more.


	15. Chapter 15

**XV**

It was the chill that woke him. He'd fallen asleep in the bath and the water had gone cold. He was shivering there, and as he regained consciousness, he realized that he wasn't feeling as terrible as he had before. He had quite a headache but he was hungry instead of nauseated and the world was no longer spinning around him. And actually, he felt even the slightest bit rested. No choice now but to get up and actually start the day.

He drained the bath as he shaved and fixed his hair. He did not, however, return to his bedroom just yet. The evidence of his night of tormented depression was not anything he wanted to see again just yet. Best find something to eat first. He donned his dressing gown and went down the hallway to the kitchen.

What he found, however, surprised him. His kitchen was not empty. Sitting at the table drinking a cup of tea was Mrs. Beazley.

"I thought I fired you," he grumbled, deciding to hold on to his anger and annoyance rather than let his surprise show.

"You did," she answered calmly. Her eyes flashed somewhat dangerously and her mouth was set in a stern line. "And you don't have to pay me if you don't want to. But I'll not let you drink yourself to death. These people need you, and you're going to be there for them as long as I have something to say about it. You need to be at Confession in twenty minutes. I'll make you some toast while you get dressed."

Lucien stared at her, dumbfounded. His mouth opened and closed like a pitiful goldfish.

Mrs. Beazley did not give him a chance to respond. "Go now, please," she instructed.

He had no choice but to obey. His head was pounding and his mind was not entirely functioning yet, so he went to put on his clothes without much thought on the matter. But he could not possibly imagine what Mrs. Beazley was doing here still. He had yelled at her yesterday to get out and she had. And then she'd arrived this morning like usual. Perhaps if he'd found her waiting in the kitchen, he would not have reacted as he had. But he had instead found her in his bedroom going through the things in his trunk while he was passed out on the floor. She had seen things that he had never shared with anyone. And he had not actually shared them with her. She had taken them. The knowledge and meaning of them, she had taken. And that was why he had fired her and thrown her out this time.

But she had not left. Why had she not left? He could not fathom why she would do such a thing, why she would say that he did not need to pay her but she would continue to help him and ensure that he was able to continue to do his work.

Lucien finished getting dressed and went back to the kitchen. A plate of toast and jam and a cup of tea were waiting for him. Mrs. Beazley had already done the washing up and was sitting down with another cup of tea, waiting for him. She did not speak as he sat down to tuck in to the breakfast she prepared.

But he would not let it go so easily. He could not have everything just fall back to how it had been, though how it had been was very nice. No, she knew too much and surely had too many questions. And knowing this, he had too many questions of his own. The chief of which he asked first. "Why are you bothering?"

"I told you," she replied curtly. "I won't let you lapse in your duties when the parish needs you."

"Yes, but why?" he insisted.

She took a sip of her tea, probably considering his answer. She was watching him closely as he chewed on his toast. But she did give him a response. "I have enjoyed working with you, up until yesterday. And if you fired me a week ago, I may have been disappointed but accepted it."

"But not now?" he pressed.

"No. You might not like to hear it, but I owe it to your father."

She was right, he did not like to hear it at all. "So that's it, is it? You're fulfilling your duty to old Doctor Blake by playing nursemaid to his failure of a son?" he asked angrily.

"I don't think you're a failure. And I don't think you are as much of a failure as you think you are. You hide it far too well. And you care too much. I know there's a great deal I don't know about you, but I would like to, and I would like to help you if I can."

"I suppose you think this is God's plan for you, hmm? That you were sent to this town after Dad died to lead me to the light?" he scoffed.

Mrs. Beazley shrugged slightly. "Perhaps. I don't know. But I'm here now, and however you want to look at it, you had the good or bad fortune of being found by me under the willow tree that night, so here we are."

"But you don't owe me anything."

The smallest hint of a smile appeared on her lips. "What does anyone owe anyone else?"

And that was certainly something to ponder.

"Go hear Confession," she directed. "I'm going to do a bit of work in the garden. And when you return, I'd like to talk about some things, if that's alright. Though if you continue to shout at me and throw me out, I'll go home and only show up here to make sure you're out of bed and fed enough to do your job."

Lucien stood up, feeling slightly less hungover but significantly more troubled and confused. "I…" He trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. "Thank you."

Mrs. Beazley just nodded.

* * *

As soon as Father Blake left, Jean felt herself crumple in the chair. Her heart was pounding. She could not believe that she had stood up to him that way and been able to remain so calm about it. It was the truth that she felt slightly more compelled to help him, now that she knew that he was Doctor Blake's son. She had so many questions still about their relationship and what had happened between them to cause Jean to be the one to inherit the man's estate.

Maybe he was right, as facetious as he was about the notion. Maybe it was God's plan for Jean to work for Doctor Blake and to continue her service to him by being the one to look after his wayward and complicated son. Jean herself did not quite see it that way. She had suffered far too much to believe that God had a plan for things like this. The God Jean believed in, the God to which she prayed when she went to church was full of love. He did not bring such suffering upon people as a punishment, nor did He place such cruel tests and obstacles in the way of His children. Perhaps the Catholic Church might disagree, perhaps everything in her life was some sort of divine intervention, but Jean liked the idea of coincidence. Because if it was coincidence that she happened to have been Doctor Blake's housekeeper and now Father Blake's helper of sorts, then it could mean that Christopher's death and Jack's troubles could be coincidence too. It was simply too painful to believe that such cruelties were purposefully inflicted upon her by God, and it was too hypocritical to pick and choose what it was He controlled. Easier to think of it all as some sort of unplanned accident.

But even if the priest were not the son of her former employer, whether or not it was God's plan, Jean somehow felt that she would still insist on staying on to help him like this. She meant what she'd said to him, that she might not owe him specifically, but what does anyone owe to anyone else? Jean truly felt that if she was in a position to ease the suffering of another that she should endeavor to help any way she could. Father Blake was surely suffering and desperately in need of help. He had admitted as much to her when he'd first hired her, and that fact had not changed in the weeks since. And Jean knew that his protests against her now were the product of discomfort and fear; him firing her did not mean he no longer needed her help.

Besides, she did not need the money if he did have no further intention of paying her. And really, what else did she have to do? She had made some friends in town with her neighbors and such, and she did enjoy them, but Jean had known from the beginning that she would need some sort of purpose in her life to keep her from getting bored. And Father Blake certainly was not boring. Messy and confusing at times, but never boring.

She finished her tea and washed up his breakfast things and went outside. The rain had practically drowned her freshly planted garden, but it did not look too dire. She spent some time moving things around and undoing as much of the rain damage as she could and cleaning off things that had gotten muddy or whipped around by the wind. The whole task was much dirtier than she expected, but at least the sun was shining today and she did not need to be rained on anymore.

When her tasks were complete, she went back inside to clean herself up. Father Blake should be finished with Confession any minute, by her estimation. She put the kettle on to make them both some tea, and she waited, hoping that he would be willing to let her ease her curiosity about him just a little and hoping even more that he would not tell her to go.


	16. Chapter 16

**XVI**

Confession went by as pointlessly and annoyingly as always. It really was his least favorite part of being a priest. It wasn't even the way people complained about the most pointless worries, but rather the deep and personal fear that these poor people felt from the smallest things. Canon law and priests who were much more devout that Lucien had drummed into them that their sins were all equally terrible so that a man confessing adultery got as upset as a woman confessing envy, and a young boy confessing to stealing a chocolate bar from the store begged for forgiveness as though he'd murdered someone. And Lucien hated to hear the pain and torment they experienced. In his less charitable days, he resented their pettiness, for none of them had ever known true pain. They had nothing to complain about.

But today he was able to get through it without much bother. He prayed with the people who needed him and brought comfort to all who crossed the church's threshold. That was what he was supposed to do. Never mind that a monkey with a phonograph could have probably done just as well.

Lucien was glad to leave as soon as he was able. He had told Mrs. Beazley that they would talk when he returned, and they would. As he walked across the grounds to the rectory, he mulled over what he wanted to tell her. How much he wanted to tell her. Now that he was fully sober and the shock of it all had dissipated, he really did want to be able to tell his story. Not all of it, of course. She had proven that him shouting and firing her would not be enough to make her go, but he felt that his whole story might well be enough for her to see that her assistance and care was in vain. And selfishly, Lucien did not want her to go. She had shown him a possibility of a life where he was not so horribly alone. And who was it that said that a burden shared is a burden halved? Oh probably somewhere in the bible. He really should know that. Ah well.

She was waiting there when he went inside. She opened her mouth to say something but quickly closed it, changing her mind.

"What?" he asked, noticing her strange reticence. Perhaps she was uncomfortable, but she had, just that morning, scolded him something terrible. What could the problem be now?

"Oh, I was going to ask you how your day went, but that seemed a bit odd to ask," she replied.

He hummed in agreement. Yes, that might have been odd. For Mrs. Beazley to ask him about his day in the manner a wife might ask her husband when he got home from work. Certainly an odd prospect for a widow and a priest.

"You look significantly more sober than you started out," she ventured.

"Yes, all better on that front."

She nodded in approval. "Tea?" she offered.

"No, I think I need something a bit stronger. I don't imagine we'll be able to talk about much if all I have is tea." He moved past her to the cabinet to get a bottle and a glass.

Mrs. Beazley furrowed her brow at him. "Have you got anything besides scotch?"

He turned back to her quizzically.

"I think I might need something stronger than tea as well," she admitted with a wry smile.

Lucien chuckled lightly and turned back to the cabinet. "I've got some sherry here, how about that?"

She nodded. "Perfect. I like sherry."

He found a glass for her and poured each of them their respective drinks. He handed her the sherry and gestured to the sofa. He took his scotch and sat across from her in the armchair. After a fortifying sip, he began. "I want to start out, Mrs. Beazley, by apologizing and then explaining."

"Alright," she allowed.

"First, I'm sorry I yelled at you as I did. None of it was warranted or really directed at you in the least. Both yesterday and this morning, I overreacted and I am truly sorry."

All she did was nod in acceptance.

"You see, you've told me a bit about the doctor you worked for. That he was a good man, good to you, kind, and so on. And then finding out you were talking about my father was quite a shock."

"But why?" she interrupted.

He gave a rueful sort of smile. "The memories I have of my father do not fall in line with the Doctor Blake you've known. He might have been that way once," Lucien recalled. "Actually, I know he was. When I was very small, when my mother was still alive. He was gentle. I remember him being strict and formal a lot of the time, but he would bend to her always, and even if I was doing something I wasn't supposed to, he would gently guide me to the correct path."

"That sounds like him," she said with an affectionate nod.

"Did he ever tell you much about my mother?" he asked.

She shook her head. "Very little. I know her name was Genevieve and she was an artist."

"Yes," he confirmed. "She was French. He met her when he took a European tour when he had just finished medical school. They fell madly in love, as far as I knew, and she came with him back to Australia. I remember she used to sing to me in French. He would play the piano and she would hold me on her lap and sing. I remember how he used to look at her, like the sun and moon and stars shone inside her."

"How beautiful," Mrs. Beazley commented.

Lucien sighed, "Well, then my mother died and the grief changed him. I know now that's what it was, but at the time I was ten years old and I didn't understand why my father suddenly seemed to hate me. He would slam doors and shout at me to get away from his office, and he sent me away to boarding school two weeks after her funeral. And that was how things stayed between us. He was never gentle with me ever again. I was a constant disappointment, and he told me as often as he could. Didn't do well enough in school, wasn't dedicated to my studies or to my music. I'm actually surprised I didn't rebel even more than I did. But in the end, I did what he wanted me to for two reasons, the first being that I genuinely wanted to do it and the second being that it was the only way at the time to guarantee I'd never have to go back to Ballarat ever again."

She frowned in slight confusion. "What did you do?"

"I was a doctor."

"You were!?"

"I was. I was fascinated by Dad's work when I was a child. That's usually what I would get yelled at for, actually, was going into his study and borrowing his medical books. I wanted to be a surgeon. I wanted to heal people and save lives."

"In a way, that's what you ended up doing."

Lucien recalled a conversation they'd had when they'd just met, about a doctor and a priest doing much the same thing when it came right down to it. "Yes," he agreed. "But that came much later. I went to Edinburgh for medical school. Traveled all around Europe as much as I could. And when I finished school and got my degree, I was expected to return to Ballarat, I'm sure. But I couldn't bear it. After all the things I'd seen and everything I'd done, it felt like going backwards to return to Australia at all. I did, in the end. I went back to Melbourne and that's where I joined the army."

"Oh!"

He nearly started to laugh. The surprise in her voice. How many people would that shock, he wondered? How many people in the parish would never guess that Father Blake had been Doctor Blake and Major Blake long before joining the priesthood? Mrs. Beazley certainly seemed one of them.

"Why did you join the army?"

"It was a good excuse to keep away. And it gave me a purpose and a structure to life. I could see the world and do good. That's what I thought, at any rate. After I was made a Major, I was stationed in Singapore, and that's where I lived and worked for six years before it fell to the Japanese."

Mrs. Beazley gasped slightly. Perhaps he should not have spoken of it in such a casual tone. But it was the only way he could say it. He'd not said it aloud in so very long. To give it the weight and gravity it deserved was a means of preservation.

He swallowed down the rest of the whiskey in his glass. "I was captured and held in a prisoner of war camp for three years. And when I was released, I went to the seminary."

"That's quite a change." The question was evident in her tone, though she did not actually ask it.

"Yes, it was," he answered. "But I think it's getting a bit late. You need to be getting home, Mrs. Beazley. I've kept you here long enough already." Lucien stood up and gestured to her.

Mrs. Beazley stood up, being far too polite and courteous to overstay her welcome under the circumstances. She put her empty sherry glass on the table. "Are you sure you don't want me to make you some supper?" she asked.

He smiled. "That's very kind of you, but I'm quite alright. You head home and have some supper of your own."

"Alright," she conceded. "But I'll see you tomorrow?"

"I don't think I've got a choice, do I?" he teased.

"No, you don't," she replied with a teasing smile of her own.

"Catechism tomorrow afternoon, if you're able to stay and assist."

She nodded. "Of course."

"Good. Thank you, Mrs. Beazley."

And just before she walked out the door, she paused to look at him with an expression he could not quite decipher. "Thank you, Father," she said softly. Her hand gently touched his arm, but after a fraction of a second, she removed it. And she was gone into the evening air.


	17. Chapter 17

**XVII**

Jean barely slept that night. She had gone home and had some supper and tried to read a book but her mind would not quiet. She tried to relax in a hot bath but nothing soothed her. She ended up going to bed early but sleep eluded her for hours. She tossed and turned and tried to take her mind off of it but couldn't seem to focus on anything else.

All she could think about was Father Blake. And all the time he'd spent before becoming a priest. When he was just Lucien Blake. Doctor Lucien Blake, it seemed. And then Major Lucien Blake in the army. She never would have guessed that about him, not in a million years. She knew he was odd and different and it made sense he had a life and career before becoming a priest. But she had, in some distance sense, thought he might have been a criminal of some kind. He had that air about him, that sense of danger and rebellion. Not that he ever made her feel unsafe or threatened in the least. He had a warm presence, when he wasn't drunk and shouting. There was a pain in him that was utterly palpable, and Jean still did not quite understand it. Was it only that he did not have the love of his father? That after his mother died, he was cast aside and sent away and not shown the kind of love that a boy needs to grow into a good man?

Well, that wasn't always the case, was it? Jean knew that from very personal experience. Her boys had lost their father and she had loved and protected them as much as she could. Jack, especially, had received more of her attention than was really his fair share. And still he had gotten into trouble and fought tooth and nail against the confines of polite society. Young Christopher had clung to his father's memory and joined the army to follow in his footsteps, despite Jean's vehement protests. She'd practically begged him to reconsider. She wanted to send him to university and tried to get him to go. She had been prepared to ask Doctor Blake for a loan to help pay for it. She would have given all of her savings to pay the tuition if Christopher had only gone to university and not to the army. All her love and attention had done nothing to dissuade either of her boys from their path. She could not imagine that Lucien was much different. Even if his father had been disapproving and distant, surely something else in his life had caused the pain he now lived with every day.

The other thing that stuck with Jean was the fact that her biggest question and biggest concern had not been answered by him telling his tale. Because Jean lay in her brand new bed in her house that was all her own that she had because she and not Lucien Blake had inherited Thomas Blake's estate. What had he said, that he was in a prisoner of war camp for three years and then joined the seminary? Had Doctor Blake been told that his son had been captured? Had he been told that his son had died? He'd always told Jean that he'd lost his son in the war. But he hadn't! Lucien had lived and become a priest. Had he not told his father he had lived? Had he been so filled with contempt for how he'd been treated as a boy that he would allow his father to believe he had died?

The very idea of it seemed so cruel to Jean, and she did not want to contemplate such a thing from the kind yet slightly odd priest she had come to know. Because despite the drinking and the shouting and the lax relationship with proper canon law, Father Blake was a good man filled with more compassion and understanding than Jean had ever encountered before, particularly in a priest. He genuinely cared about his parishioners. He was wonderful with the children he taught, he was gentle with the little ones and friendly to the older ones. He was polite and friendly to the elderly people he encountered. He was chivalrous with the ladies and straightforward with the men. And the idea that this same man could possess even an ounce of cruelty directed towards his own father was just so inapposite to Jean's understanding of him.

When morning finally arrived, Jean felt just as confused and exhausted as before she'd gone to bed. She hoped that there would be time to ask Father Blake her questions that day so she did not need to live with this uncertainty and guilt any longer, but he had been so abrupt the day before, had told her what he wanted to and nothing more and ushered her out of the house before she could say two words. The last thing she wanted was to upset him again, but he was just so sensitive and Jean did not want to push him with regards to such personal things.

She got out of bed and did her best to start the day as she always did. Her worries weighed on her, but she would just have to carry on.

* * *

Mrs. Beazley was very quiet, and it was causing Lucien great worry. She wasn't really a very chatty woman, which he usually appreciated, but her polite conversation and gentle—and sometimes less than gentle—scolding were things he had grown to enjoy and count on in his days. But not so today. She went about her work, making breakfast for him and fixing her tea, but she did not seem the same as usual.

Had he said too much the day before? Had his tales of his father upset her in some way? He'd tried not to be too hard on the old man, particularly not to Mrs. Beazley, who respected him and grieved his death. But perhaps some truth that he had told her had caused her to want to distance herself from him. And that was the thing he had feared. He did not want her to think less of him—for he'd not thought such a thing was possible what with the state she'd found him in more than once now—and he especially did not want her to pull away from him. He had thought that his keeping things from her was having that effect, but perhaps learning the truth was scaring her off. Lucien had lived far too long in isolation, and now that he had found one person with whom he wanted to share his time and his stories, he was afraid he might have ruined it all.

"Everything alright?" he asked as he assisted her with the dishes. She washed and he dried and put away. When he was sufficiently sober, he liked to do this with her. Some days he was just too hungover to manage standing upright and completing any such task. But he'd not had a drop to drink last night after she'd left. He'd made himself a sandwich and worked on his lesson plan for catechism and then gone to bed. But if she were in this sort of mood, maybe he should have gotten blackout drunk again.

But Mrs. Beazley reassured him, "Fine. I didn't sleep well last night, I'm afraid. I'm just a little tired."

Lucien wanted to ask if there was anything he could do to help, but thankfully he caught himself before saying the words. The insinuation of a man helping a woman sleep well were…well, it was inappropriate to say the least. He was a priest and he had already crossed far too many lines with her. Though, in fairness, she had let him. Ah well, a problem for another day. For now, she was tired and he was feeling a bit vulnerable and they'd probably just have to tiptoe around each other for now. They'd get through it, he had no doubt.

Mrs. Beazley went to work out in the garden after that. She did her work quietly, again, and he helped as much as he could. She gave him instructions and corrected his mistakes but they otherwise did not speak.

They shared a late lunch, again in companionable and slightly awkward silence, and then got ready to go to the church to greet the children. He went to his office to collect his materials and she prepare the classroom.

When the children arrived, Mrs. Beazley lit up for the first time all day. She was a marvel with children. Well, she was a marvel with most things, but seeing her smile and laugh and care for his students warmed his heart in a way he had not realized was missing. He loved teaching and loved the time he spent getting to help guide the young ones. And it looked like she felt just the same. He knew she was a mother, but seeing her be maternal this way was just ever so lovely. It even drove him to distraction sometimes, seeing the gentle way she was with those kids.

But class ended all too soon and everyone went home. A few parents were there to pick up the little ones who did not walk home, and one of the mothers stopped him to ask about the upcoming confirmation ceremony. It was still more than a month away, but parents tended to fret about events such as these. Lucien answered her questions as kindly as he could, and she seemed satisfied.

At last, it was just he and Mrs. Beazley left in the classroom, stacking chairs. She had gone quiet again.

"Mrs. Beazley, are you sure you're just tired?" he asked.

"Yes," she replied quickly.

"I would hate to think that something from our conversation yesterday has upset you in any way. Even tired, you're not usually so quiet," he pressed.

She paused, furrowing her brow as she regarded him. Eventually she sighed and said, "Well, there is something that's been bothering me. I…well, I wasn't sure how to bring it up."

Lucien stopped what he was doing and pulled two of the remaining chairs over. "Please," he gestured, taking one seat for himself and indicating she should do the same.

He'd not meant to put the chairs so close together, but when they sat down, their knees were practically touching. For whatever it was worth, she did not move away from him. He didn't either.

"Ask me anything you want," he prompted.

Mrs. Beazley frowned, likely working herself up to whatever it is she wanted to say. Her hands fidgeted in her lap somewhat before she looked up at him. "Why did you let your father think you died?"

Ah so that was it. Yes, that was one thing he'd chosen not to address yesterday. He had hoped to preserve some of her good feeling towards her deceased former employer, and this part of the story did not paint old Doctor Blake in a very good light. Lucien knew he had to try and take this as delicately as he could, lest she become upset and accuse him of defaming his father. "Did he say that I died?" he asked her.

She thought for a moment and suddenly realized, "No, actually. He always just said that he didn't have a son anymore. That you were lost in the war. I thought it was just a kinder way of saying it. But no, he never actually said you were dead. I only knew that he had no family."

Lucien nodded and told her the sorry tale. "I wrote him a letter when I got to seminary. Told him I'd survived the camp and was joining the priesthood. And he replied and told me he wouldn't try to change my mind but that I was wasting my talent and potential in favor of a life of hypocrisy and pointless preaching."

"What?!"

Perhaps he'd given more detail than was absolutely necessary, but that letter had wounded Lucien at a time when he had believed he could be wounded no further. His bitterness at his father for that and everything else was still closer to the surface than he liked to believe. "He never went to church with you, did he?"

"No."

"My father had a great contempt for religion. He indulged it in my mother when she was alive because he loved her. But he was a man of science through and through. Anything that could not be proven with scientific evidence was not worth his time. And in becoming a priest, I had done my final act of failing him, in his eyes. So after that letter, I didn't bother writing him again. It would have felt like rubbing it in, I think. And I didn't particularly want to face his derision any longer. And he never bothered to try and contact me, as far as I know. Hearing from you that he never spoke of me and acted as though I died makes perfect sense. In his eyes, he did lose me in the war. I came through it and became a priest, and to him, I was no longer myself. And perhaps I wasn't. But I made my choice and he made his."

Mrs. Beazley was quiet, watching her own hands clasped in her lap to keep them from fidgeting anymore. "So that was why."

"Why what?"

"Why he left his estate to me."

Lucien realized in that moment that poor Mrs. Beazley must have been worried about that since the moment she learned that old Doctor Blake's son was not dead and instead sitting right there in front of her. She was a good woman with a good sense of right and wrong, and to her mind, surely, a man leaving his estate to a housekeeper and not his son if his son was living was wrong. She had bought a house and been living quite comfortably over what she must have believed was Lucien's rightful inheritance. He quickly disabused her of that notion. "He left his estate to you because he cared for you, I have no doubt. Probably saw you as the daughter he wished he had. You were his companion and caretaker for years, and I'm sure you more than earned his good opinion of you. And even if he had wanted to leave anything to me, I couldn't accept it. I'm a priest, Mrs. Beazley, and anything given to me such as that would have been immediately donated to the Church. I took a vow of poverty. All I have is what the parish and archdiocese provide for me. I bet Dad knew that. And I know he would have rather seen you live a good life than see all his money go to the institution he reviled. You have absolutely nothing to feel guilty for. You took nothing that would in anyway be rightfully mine. And besides, I never wanted anything from him anyway. He and I are both happier that you have been the one to benefit."

She was quiet again. Processing everything he told her, surely. He waited for her to say something, though it was difficult for him to be patient in that way. "I suppose you're right," she finally said.

"Thank you, yes, I am right on occasion."

That made her smile just a little, which warmed his heart. "I'm just sorry things were left so unresolved between the two of you. Strain like that between a parent and child is difficult to bear."

Something in her words led Lucien to believe she was speaking from personal experience, though he did not want to invade her privacy now, not while she was already dealing with so much. His curiosity could wait. "I have been very alone for a very long time, Mrs. Beazley," he told her. "I have often thought it was for the best. Dad lived a perfectly fine life with you to take care of him. And I've been here, none the wiser. There's nothing to be sorry for. Not about that, at any rate."

The way she looked at him, so small and vulnerable, made Lucien wish he could take her in his arms and hold her and promise her that there was good in the world, even if he himself had trouble finding it. Fine priest he made, telling others to find meaning and joy where he himself could not. But of course he could not do that. Not with her or with anyone. That was part of the choice he had made. The terrible, stupid choice he'd made. And until this moment, Lucien had not yet admitted to himself that his father had been right about that.


	18. Chapter 18

**XVIII**

Jean developed a lovely rhythm to her life. Each morning, Monday through Friday, she woke up and spent the morning doing her chores before going to see Father Blake. She made his breakfast and did some tidying for him before going out to see to the rectory garden while he went to hear Confession. The flowers were starting to bloom and she would clip those that were ready and made arrangements to adorn St. Catherine's. Then in the afternoons, she would help with catechism or with preparations for Wednesday Mass or whatever else the priest needed. Saturdays were her own, often spent doing shopping or spending time with some of her friends and neighbors. Often Abigail Harris would come by for a cup of tea. Sometimes one of the Collins children would come by to see her. Sunday, she accompanied them to Mass more often than not. Father Blake was very good when the occasion called for him to actually fulfil his duty as the parish priest. Perhaps that was how he'd been able to escape notice from all his drunken behavior for so long; the parishioners loved him and did not look for any of his many faults. Jean liked to see him like this, though. He was obviously a priest presiding over the Mass in his vestments, but he was very much in his element, and it made her happy to see him doing such a good job.

The routine seemed to suit them both. He was not drinking as much as when she had first arrived, though she did find an empty bottle of scotch at least once a week. A small part of her wondered how he was about to get his hands on so much of it without raising suspicion, but she didn't need to bother about such things. He was only hungover about once or twice a week at the very most nowadays. A definite improvement.

One Wednesday, she assisted him with a particularly difficult homily. He had gotten it into his head that he wanted to talk about the true nature of loving thy neighbor. They'd spent over an hour debating back and forth. Jean's perspective was that the idea was to treat people with kindness and understanding and to provide assistance when asked or when needed. Father Blake argued that it went further than that. He felt—quite strongly—that loving thy neighbor was not merely an act of selflessness and generosity but the radical notion of working to understand others.

"How can we claim to love anyone if we maintain rigidity?" he asked her rhetorically. "Too often the Church is so focused on the prescriptive nature of religion. Go through the motions and do what you're told and everything will work out fine. But how can that be so? Shouldn't the rituals have meaning? Shouldn't our care for our fellow man be based not on the idea that we're supposed to care but instead based on a genuine love? Take you and I, for example."

"You and I?!" she asked in surprise.

"You don't like that I drink. But you don't turn your back on me for my bad decision. You help me ease the pain of it. That is loving thy neighbor. And you don't go to Confession. But I do not judge your choice or think less of you for doing what the strict law of the Church might think of as a wrong choice. I respect your decision for I know that it is your own and I celebrate your free will in making that choice for yourself," he explained.

He spoke with such passion and conviction, Jean felt her mind changing ever so slightly. She had been raised within the strict confines of the Church and taught that it was the only way and deviation was to be reviled. Father Blake operated differently. His liberal interpretation of canon and the radical understanding he preached were how he lived. And though Jean did not want to agree that acceptance and understanding of the choice of others was always the best way—after all, some decisions should not be celebrated—she could not entirely argue against the compassion that he wanted to impart through his homily.

Jean did not always stay for Wednesday evening Mass, but she did that night. She wanted to hear what he ended up saying and she wanted to see the reaction of the handful of others who had come to Mass that night. The way he preached, he could not help but get others on his side. Jean could see on people's faces the way he had convinced them. Perhaps his influence would last, perhaps this small group of people would leave the church tonight feeling kinder. Perhaps Father Blake could instill just a little more compassion out into the world. Her heart was filled with admiration for him and pride in seeing him succeed and do so well. He caught her eye, right as he finished and led them all in a concluding hymn, and they shared a smile together.

After Mass ended, she lingered, gathering her coat and purse slowly. A couple of people stayed to ask Father Blake something or other, but he handled them quickly. At last, only the two of them were left in St. Catherine's that night.

"I'm a bit sorry we had such a small group tonight. I would have liked for the homily to go to more people. But it wouldn't have been right for a Sunday," he said, crossing through the aisle toward where she was waiting on the end of the third pew back.

"No, an evening Mass was the right place for it. And it was wonderful," she praised.

"I appreciate your assistance, as always," he replied with a soft smile.

Jean nearly blushed at that. Something in his tone was almost…intimate.

He continued, "Because we had so few people, I could hear your voice during the hymns."

"Oh, I'm sorry, I was probably too loud."

"No need to apologize," he assured her. "You have a beautiful voice. I like hearing it. You should think about joining the choir, actually. You're around here enough that it wouldn't be too much extra time for you to attend rehearsals. And Mrs. Williams is getting on. There's no one to take over the choir when she can't manage it anymore. I think you'd be perfect," he suggested.

"I don't think so," she replied tactfully.

"No? May I ask why?"

"Well, I think it would take a lot of work for the choir to improve."

"Oh I don't think you're afraid of a little hard work, Mrs. Beazley," he teased.

"I'm not, but that would take time and when I am working here at the church and in the rectory, I…" Jean trailed off, not knowing if it was right to finish that sentence.

"You what?" he pressed.

She should have known he wouldn't just let it go. "I prefer to spend my time here with you. And you don't direct the choir."

The look of absolute elation on his face warmed her heart. She did enjoy spending time with him, and to know that fact pleased him was quite endearing to say the least.

Without really realizing it, the pair of them had cleared away things in the church and headed back to the rectory. They'd reached the front door before they knew it. Jean had intended to go home but here they were.

"Would you like to have a cup of tea?" he offered.

In truth, she was glad he asked. She did not quite want the evening to end just yet. Going home to her own house with all her things was always a comfort, but she was alone there. Here, she could be with him. "I'd like that, thank you."

He led her inside the rectory and turned on the lights. She put her coat and purse by the door as she did every day when she arrived there to start her work. This time, there was no work to be done. Jean went into the kitchen to start the kettle. "Will you be joining me?" she asked, calling to him in the parlor.

"No, thank you, I like a bit of scotch in the evenings," he replied.

"More than a bit," she muttered to herself. But she wouldn't stop him. He was a grown man fit to make his own decisions, and if he wanted to wake up with a headache, he was well within his rights to do so. Jean would be by in the morning to make sure he was alright.

By the time she brought her mug of tea out to the sofa, Father Blake had put on one of his jazz records. He had also taken off his cassock so he was left in only the white button-down shirt and black trousers he always had on underneath. She saw him swallow the last of what was in his glass and fill it again. Already. It made her wonder if he always removed his priestly garb when he drank. But Jean did not ask. She just sat down and drank her tea.

They talked a little about church business for a little while, but that did not get them very far. He changed the subject quite suddenly by asking, "Mrs. Beazley, may I ask about your husband?"

The question took her by surprise but it was not unwelcome. "What do you want to know?"

"Anything. I am just curious about what sort of man you married all those years ago."

She smiled. It was painful, at times, to think about her married life. It had been so important and significant and defining, yet all considered, she had only been married a short while. But it had been, for the most part, a happy time. And she liked to think of it that way. "His name was Christopher. His family lived on farm down the road from ours. We were the same age and we went to school together," she said. "He was always a bit of a troublemaker. Never the ringleader, but he was fiercely loyal to his family and his friends, and he would get in fights to defend them. Impulsive, a lot of the time. But when he decided he cared for someone or something, that was all that was needed. He would do anything for the people he cared about."

"And most of all you, I can imagine."

Jean hesitated slightly. That was a sore subject. Knowing how far Christopher had gone to war because he thought it was what Jean wanted. It had gotten him killed. "He loved me. I do know that. And I loved him. First love is like that, all big dreams and excitable romantic notions. We were married when we were nineteen."

"That's quite young," he noted.

"Well, we had to get married," she explained delicately.

"Ah," Father Blake said knowingly. "Did Father Morton know?"

Until that moment, Jean had momentarily forgotten that Father Blake had grown up going to Sacred Heart just as she had. They both knew the old Ballarat priest. "I think he suspected. He wasn't very pleased with me, I know."

"Oh yes, it's always the woman's fault, isn't it?" he said sardonically, rolling his eyes. "As though your Christopher was dragged into temptation by you at no fault of his own. I was a nineteen-year-old boy once; I have no doubt that any fault was an even distribution between you both."

In spite of herself, Jean chuckled slightly. "Very true."

Father Blake poured himself yet another glass of scotch. This was his fourth, by Jean's count. "And then a few months later you were a mother, is that it?"

"Actually, no." Jean's expression tightened. This was not something she liked to tell people. But somehow telling Father Blake did not make her feel as ashamed as such thoughts usually did. "Your father, actually, was the one who told me that my daughter was stillborn."

"Oh I'm so sorry," he said sincerely. "I cannot imagine how difficult that must have been."

Jean did not want to linger there. She only nodded. "But a year later, our Christopher Jr. was born and Jack came along a year and a half after that. And things were difficult, living and working on a farm with two small boys. Mouths to feed and too much work and not enough money. Too many things to do always. But we were happy, I think. I thought that was what my life would always be. We had each other and that was all we really needed."

"I am sure any home of yours would be a very happy one, Mrs. Beazley," he told her kindly.

"But then the war broke out and all the workers enlisted and left us. Eventually Christopher did the same. He died in the Solomons. I wasn't notified until seven months after his death. And after that, of course, everything changed. I kept the farm as long as I could, I worked whatever odd jobs I could at the school and as a seamstress. I had to move in with my sister in town; she'd lost her husband in the war as well, and her son Danny was the same age as my Jack. But then the boys all grew up. My sister remarried and moved to Melbourne. And that was how I ended up working for Doctor Blake."

He took the last sip out of his glass. "So that's the story of your life, is it?" he asked. She frowned at him. His words were slurring.

"Yes," she answered quietly, watching him very carefully. He leaned forward to reach the bottle on the table and nearly knocked it over. That was Jean's cue. She stood up and took the bottle away. "No, I think that's enough for tonight. Time for bed, I think."

"The record's not done playing," he protested drunkenly.

Jean took the bottle and put it on the usual shelf. She lifted the needle of the phonograph. "It'll be there in the morning for you," she told him. "Come along, let's get you into bed."

Father Blake hauled himself up from his chair and teetered where he stood. And just like that first night they'd met, Jean put her arm around his waist and tossed his arm over her shoulders and helped lead him to safety. Luckily the distance from the parlor to the bedroom was not as great as from the willow tree to the rectory.

She helped him sit down on the bed, and he flopped back immediately. "I'll get you some water," she told him.

"Hmm, thank you," he slurred. "Very sweet of you. Sweet. Good."

Jean couldn't help but appreciate his kindness while drunk as opposed to his gruff annoyance when he was hungover. An interesting dichotomy to be sure. She hurried from the room to get him a glass of water from the kitchen. "Here, drink this," she said upon returning.

But he was already fast asleep. His mouth was open and his head lolled to the side on the pillow. Jean got a blanket from the foot of the bed to put over him. And, since he was passed out, she indulged for a moment, sitting on the edge of the bed beside him.

Ever so gently, she placed a hand on his chest, feeling his heart beating and the rise and fall of each breath. "Why do you do this to yourself, Lucien?" she asked quietly. He would not hear her question, nor would he hear her use his first name. But here, like this, he was not the Father Blake who had so passionately preached his homily. This was Lucien. Sad, broken Lucien. It was Lucien who needed her. And, Jean was coming to realize, she was enjoying spending time with Father Blake because he was Lucien underneath it all. She only wished she understood more. Why was he like this? Where did this incessant drinking come from?

Jean sighed softly and removed her hand from him. He was alright for now. Time for her to go.

Only she could not seem to bring herself to leave. What if he needed something during the night? What if he got out of bed and hurt himself somehow? Jean would not abandon him when he needed her. That much they had established long ago.

Seeing no real alternative, Jean took off her shoes and curled up on the sofa. She draped her coat over herself as a blanket and rested her head on a throw pillow. And eventually, she fell asleep.

* * *

Lucien woke up in early in the morning. He hardly remembered how he'd gotten to bed. He'd been drinking, of course. That was the only way he was able to sleep uninterrupted through the night. But he was still wearing all his clothes, even his shoes. And as the dawn bled through the window, he saw a full glass of water on the nightstand. Mrs. Beazley must have put it there after helping him to bed. He sat up gingerly and drank it all down.

She really did take better care of him that he really deserved. And now she had shared more of herself with him. He had dared to ask her about her husband and was amazed and honored with the way she'd responded. Pregnant and married and miscarried all at age nineteen. She'd raised her two sons after her husband had died in the war. She'd tried to keep a farm running, she'd done whatever she could to take care of her children, and after they'd left her, she ended up with his father.

It was almost cruel, the unfairness of life. Lucien knew he himself had lived a rather wretched, selfish life, and he had been punished for it, as he deserved. But Mrs. Beazley…Jean…she was goodness personified. Perhaps a bit rigid at first, but she had softened as they'd spent more and more time together. She deserved happiness more than anyone he'd ever encountered. And yet all she had was the enjoyment of spending her time with a drunk priest. He wished more than anything that he had more than a paltry wage to offer her in return for all she had done for him.

When he felt able, Lucien stood up from the bed, slightly wobbly, and took his glass with him to refill in the kitchen. But when he reached the parlor, a shocking sight caught his eye. There, lying on the sofa, was Mrs. Beazley. Fast asleep.

Lucien approached her quietly. He put the water glass down and sat on top of the coffee table in front of the sofa. It was in his mind to wake her up, but he couldn't. Not just yet. It struck him how beautiful she was. Her makeup had smudged off during the night, leaving some black dots of mascara around her eyes and hints of red streaks of lipstick around her mouth. But she was beautiful. The lines of her face were all at rest. Her lashes fanned out over her cheeks. Those high cheekbones were so sharp in contrast to the soft, elegant line of her nose. Her lips were parted slightly as she breathed during her sleep. One of her now-limp curls fell over her face. Lucien could not stop himself from brushing it back. In doing so, he noticed a hint of gray at her temple.

At his touch, she stirred. He removed his hand and watched as her eyes fluttered open. For a moment, neither of them said a word, they just stared at one another.

"Good morning," he greeted softly.

"Good morning. How are you feeling?" she asked. Her voice was hoarse from disuse. Curiously, she did not attempt to sit up.

"I'm alright. Thank you for helping me to bed last night, and for bringing me a glass of water. That was nice to wake up to."

"You're welcome. I didn't want to leave you alone, just in case."

Her concern gave birth to an unparalleled warmth in his heart. "That was very kind. You needn't have worried, though. But I think it's time you went home," he suggested.

Now, at last, she did sit up. She stretched her arms and back, and he could not help but notice the way her breasts strained against the wrinkled blouse. "What time is it? Shall I start breakfast?" she offered.

"No, I can manage for today. Go home and take care of yourself. And if you're feeling up to it, I'll see you for catechism in the afternoon."

She considered a moment, probably thinking whether she should protest. But in the end, she agreed. "I'll be back this afternoon," she said.

He gave a nod, standing up and offering a hand to help her do the same. "I look forward to it," he murmured. A strong urge to kiss her hand passed through him, which he thankfully resisted.

Mrs. Beazley slipped her shoes back on and put on her coat. She pushed her hair away and picked up her purse. And with a kind bid of good morning, she left out the front door.

Lucien was left by himself once more, but he strangely did not feel alone.


	19. Chapter 19

**XIX**

He could not, if you asked him then or even later, recall when it started. He honestly did not know. Everything was going along so well. Lucien was happier than he'd been in a very long time. He and Mrs. Beazley were friends. Very good friends. They had an easy rhythm between them, sharing their days and her assisting with his work and the both of them managing just fine with it all.

Lucien honestly did not know when he began to look at her with so much more than a friendly fondness. Her beauty was undeniable, and that he had noticed from nearly the first moment he saw her. There was something in her eyes and the way she moved and the fit of her clothes that mesmerized him. But he'd spend time around many beautiful women in the past, none of whom had affected him like this. And their conversations had turned so much deeper and personal of late. He'd told her more than he'd ever told a living soul. And that was certainly saying something. Oh he'd not told her everything, but he knew that was coming. He knew that when he did tell her everything, it would more than likely be the last straw to send her for the hills. And he really wouldn't blame her.

But Lucien wanted to tell her. He wanted to tell her of his past, of what had brought him to this sorry state. He wanted to share with her all his fears and regrets, and he wanted to share with her all his hopes and joys. It was a recent thing, really, that he'd had any hopes at all. And it was all because of her, he knew. Mrs. Beazley…Jean…inspired in him a whole host of optimistic feelings he'd never before given a moment's thought. She had found him under the willow tree that night and had rescued him from himself over and over nearly every day since. When he'd realized that, he did not know. But he knew it now. And time would come, before long, when he would have to find a way to tell her.

It was after catechism one evening when these thoughts swirled around in his mind. She was kneeling down talking to one of the younger children whose mother was late picking her up. And as Lucien stacked chairs, he found his eye drifting to the way Mrs. Beazley's skirt was rather tight over her bum when she bent down. He knew he shouldn't look, and even if he looked, he knew he shouldn't really take notice. But his heart quickened in his chest at the sight of her. That had been happening more and more often now. And if he didn't get a handle on this nonsense soon, he'd be in danger of letting it go further.

That was the trouble, really. There was a part of him, the part of him that was still a man and was still Lucien Blake, that wanted to think of her as a woman and wanted to fantasize about her and wanted to let his imagination run wild. But he was not a man and he was not Lucien Blake. Not really. Not anymore. He was Father Blake and he was a priest and he was a servant of God. He knew his vows and he knew his duties. And despite his drunkenness and lax relationship with the strict canon laws, Father Blake had never actually broken his vows. For all that his faith had left him—if in fact it had ever existed to begin with—Father Blake knew that he was, all things considered, a good priest. He taught the children in catechism and the altar boys. He comforted the sick with last rites and consoled the bereaved at funerals. He celebrated the baptisms and confirmations and weddings. He absolved his parishioners of their petty sins when they came to Confession. And cared for this flock that had been entrusted to him as priest of the parish. In spite of who he was and what he did when the cassock and collar were thrown off, Father Blake did what it was his duty to do. Just as Major Blake had done in the army and just as Doctor Blake had done as a surgeon. Lucien always knew who he was and what he was supposed to do.

But now there was a woman involved. A woman who filled his mind and his heart and drove him to distraction. And he was at a loss of what to do.

If Lucien were any other man, he would ask her to dinner. He would court her and buy her flowers and pretty gifts and take her to the cinema and to the theater and for long walks in the park. And, after a reasonable period, he would ask her to be his wife. Things were changing in the world, but those rules of conduct between man and woman were still the same as they'd been when Lucien had been free to do such things. Now, however, Lucien was not any other man. He was not a man at all. He was a priest. And Mrs. Beazley worked for him and helped him and cared for him because he was the parish priest and it was her duty, following that strange night by the willow tree, to ensure that the parish priest could do his duties. Trying to court her or getting anywhere close to the thought of it, was in the most direct violation of those duties. And proper Mrs. Beazley surely would have none of it.

"Thank you, Mrs. Beazely. Bye, Father Blake!" little Susan called as her mother rushed into the classroom apologizing up a storm.

Everyone bid their goodbyes, and Lucien smiled after them. And then he and Mrs. Beazley were alone.

It shouldn't have been any different than usual. They were often alone together. It was actually only at catechism or during Mass that they ever had anyone else around. But given where Lucien had allowed his thoughts to wander, it felt strangely heightened now.

"Good class today," she said, obviously blissfully unaware of his present turmoil.

"Was it?" he asked in return. He'd not given it much thought.

She nodded. "The children were engaged. And it is very nice to see that Maggie Collins is participating more and more."

Lucien smiled at that. "Amazing what can happen when one finds the right motivation."

Mrs. Beazley gave a small laugh. "Yes, well, she and Peter are at that age where impressing the boy or girl you've got a crush on is the most important thing in the world."

"Some boys and girls don't grow out of that," he noted teasingly.

"That's very true," she replied in a very knowing fashion.

She turned to hand him the last of the materials to put back in the supply cabinet just as he reached over to grab them himself. Their hands met on top of the box of pens and they both froze.

Lucien thought his heart would thunder right out of his chest. The air felt suddenly sucked from the room. He stared at her, watching and waiting.

Her eyes moved from their touching hands up to his face. The pupils of her turquoise eyes were dark and wide. She seemed to be holding her breath. He saw her gaze flicker from his eyes to his lips and back up.

"Jean," he whispered. He did not know what to say. But he had to say something. And he had to call her by her name. And that was who she was in that moment. Not Mrs. Beazley, not his assistant, not anyone except a beautiful, perfect woman named Jean.

But then the spell was broken. She blinked rapidly, swallowed hard, and stepped away, sliding her hand away from his. "It's getting late, Father Blake. I'd better go."

She hurried out and Lucien just hung his head, cursing himself for what he'd done. What he'd almost done. That shouldn't have happened. He couldn't let that happen. He was slipping. His control was slipping. It wasn't that he was worried about breaking his vows, for they meant practically nothing to him. But there were more things to think about than that. He could not ever allow himself to put her in that position. He was a priest, and if he could not be trusted, what good was he to anyone at all?

This was the sort of thing that others of the cloth might pray about. Something to seek the guidance of God about. But long gone where the days when Lucien felt any real comfort in prayers of his own. And this...this was something he knew he had to keep to himself. Strangely, he did not want to confide in God about this. None of His bloody business, whether He existed or not.

Lucien put away the rest of the supplies and shut off the lights and made his way back to the rectory. There was a fresh bottle of scotch waiting for him. He'd make a good start on it after today. Perhaps even a good finish, too.


	20. Chapter 20

**XX**

It took a little time to get back to normal. At least as normal as things could be considered. Jean knew what had nearly happened after catechism that day. She knew that he had called her by her first name in that tone of voice with his breath on her cheek. She knew that he had been about to kiss her and she had wanted him to and she had very nearly let him.

The next day, she'd come back to the rectory and made his breakfast and he had been hungover and sullen. They had not talked about it. If they had, it might have spelled disaster for them both. Jean had been a bit too insistent, perhaps, on things being as normal as possible. And he had followed her lead, which she appreciated.

In time, about a week or so, that normalcy did not need to be forced anymore. They were friendly and efficient and everything was they way it was supposed to be. Jean knew her place and Father Blake knew his.

But oh she could not get it out of her mind, the way it had felt, in that moment, to be so close to him. There was danger and trouble surrounding it all. She couldn't ever let that happen again, for both their sakes. She just wished beyond all reason that she could stop thinking about him that way. For Father Blake was a good man and a good priest but Lucien…that was a different story altogether. It was still difficult, at times, for Jean to remember that he was a priest. He did not act like a priest so often, particularly when they were alone. They were alone quite often. And in those time, he was just a troubled but brilliant, beautiful man. A man who needed her help to do his job. But that job, as she forced herself to recall, was for him to deny his very humanity. He was very much not a man and could not be. He was a priest.

On that particular day, just shy of two weeks from when he had nearly kissed her and she had nearly let him, Jean and the priest were working in the church. It was their last set of tasks for the day before they would go their separate ways for supper. She was working on flower arrangements while he was doing inventory of eucharist materials. Christmas was coming relatively soon, and he would need to be sure St. Catherine's was properly stocked with what they'd need.

Jean was looking forward to her first Christmas in her new home. She recalled with fondness the pageants and nativity plays that were put on at Sacred Heart. She had always been in the Christmas shows as a child and loved being on the stage. Young Christopher had been an altar boy and Jack wanted to play a part as well, so Jean always volunteered with her boys. For two years, her Christopher had been in the audience to cheer on his wife and sons. And then after that, there had been no one to cheer for them. But she and her children carried on joyfully just the same. After the boys had left, she did not participate any longer. She helped make costumes but never again bothered to go onstage. It was just too full of memories that could never be anymore. When she'd lived with Doctor Blake, she'd not even bothered to see the nativity plays.

Now, though, she was in a new place with new people and she was eager to take part in new traditions here. "When do you start planning for the Christmas show?" she asked the priest as she trimmed the stems of flowers for the altar.

"Hmm?"

His confusion made her look up to him. And she saw the flask in his hand. That was unlike him. Nowadays, anyway. "What have you got there?" she asked sharply, forgetting all about her thoughts of Christmas.

He raised his flask to her in some kind of ill-advised toast. "Just getting through the day, Mrs. Beazley." He took a long swig from it and smiled.

It did not escape her that his eyes were not entirely focused and his cheeks were a little flushed. She knew what that meant. And she also knew that anyone in the world might walk into the church and see their priest drunk before the sun had even fully set in the sky. "Have you finished the inventory?" she asked him.

"Yes, I've got it all right here," he said, proudly slurring and waving the sheet of paper toward her.

"Good." Jean shoved her flowers into the vase, making them a minimal level of presentable, and marched up the altar to him. "You are going right to the rectory and having a cup of tea while I make you dinner."

"Oh you don't have to do that," he teased, laughing a bit too loudly.

"Oh yes I do," she snapped. "You are far too drunk this early in the evening."

He made no protest as she led him to the rectory. She was so angry at him, she could hardly see straight. How could he do this?! What was he doing!? Did he even know anymore?

"Sit down and don't you dare touch that flask again while I'm here," she barked. Jean practically shoved him down into his armchair and snatched the flask out of his hand, putting it over on the shelf with the rest of his whiskey.

She could feel his eyes on her as she bustled around the room. He did not speak, which was for the best. She desperately tried to keep moving so she could keep from screaming at him.

"Honestly, Lucien, why on earth do you do this to yourself?" she muttered angrily. It wasn't until after the words left her lips that she realized what she'd actually said.

"Do you really want to know?" he asked softly.

The gentleness of his tone made her pause. She turned and looked at him. His eyes were suddenly clear again. "Yes, I do," she replied.

He nodded slowly. "Then I think it's time I tell you."

* * *

"I need to make some tea," she said.

"No, that can wait," Lucien insisted. "Please sit."

Mrs. Beazley sat down on the sofa across from him with a furrowed brow. She looked confused and interested in equal measure. Perhaps it wasn't a very nice trick of him to feign drunkenness like that. But he'd wanted to see what she would do, how far she would go. And when she asked the question he'd hoped she would ask—using his proper name, even—Lucien knew it was time. It was time to tell the rest of the story of his life, the story that explained all the wretched things about his sorry state, the story that would send any good, reasonable person sprinting away from him. This was the story that Lucien had never, ever told anyone. But it was a story he knew he had to tell her. For if she turned from him now, it was all he deserved. And he could not accept her kindness any longer when it was presented under false pretenses. She deserved to know that he did not deserve all that she gave him.

"The very simple answer is that I drink myself to oblivion because it quiets my mind. I suffer from severe nightmares that cause me so much distress, I cannot usually sleep unless the alcohol numbs me to unconsciousness," he explained.

"Nightmares about the war?" she asked.

He nodded. Presumably she'd heard of other soldiers with similar problems. "Unlike most soldiers with my problems," he told her, "I do not have flashbacks to combat. I never saw direct combat, actually. After my medical training and I joined the army, I rose quickly through the ranks to become a Major. I was stationed in Singapore and met a woman there. Her father was a diplomat from China. She was beautiful and intelligent and proud and strong. And we fell in love. Her name was Mei Lin. I believe you saw her picture in my trunk."

Mrs. Beazley nodded very slowly, entranced by the unexpectedness of his story.

Lucien wished he had his whiskey in his hand to give him strength as he confessed these deepest of his secrets. Not even his own father knew of Mei Lin. Nor would he have ever told the old man. "We were married. It was less unusual in Singapore, given her station and mine, than it might have been if I had been in Australia and married a Chinese woman. And for a time, we were happy. We had a daughter, Li. A beautiful little girl who looked just like her mother. She was a happy child, always laughing and smiling. Being her father was the best thing in my life that I had ever gotten to do."

He lost himself for a moment, thinking about his little girl. Thinking about the pure joy of holding her in his arms, of seeing her spinning around in the garden and laughing. Nothing in all his years ever compared to those precious moments. Nothing ever would. Because all joy and goodness had been ripped away from him.

Mrs. Beazley sat on the sofa across from him looking mildly shocked. Perhaps she had guessed that he had once had a family of his own. But she said nothing, kindly and patiently waiting for him to continue. He went on, "When the war began, people were sending their families as far away as possible. Other officers I knew were sending their wives and children to Australia. I did not imagine my father would have taken kindly to my Chinese wife and mixed-race daughter that I'd never told him about. And this country would not have been kind to them, I don't think. Mei Lin's father wrote to us, asking me to send them to Hong Kong where he could protect them. I should have sent them then."

"But you didn't?" she asked.

Lucien felt the familiar churning nausea of his guilt. "No. I wanted them with me. I didn't want to be without them until there was no choice. I was too afraid to say goodbye. And I…I never got to."

She looked like she wanted to ask what he meant, but he did not want to make her.

"The bombs were falling and it was too late to send them away. One of the bombs exploded in our garden, trapping us under rubble. Mei Lin had Li in her arms, covered in dust and debris. And then the Japanese came to take prisoners." Lucien clenched his hands on the arms of his chair, feeling the terror fill him as he forced himself to describe that terrible day. "I was captured. And my wife and child were slaughtered in front of me."

Mrs. Beazley gasped in shock. Lucien dared to look at her and saw tears fall down her cheeks and a shaky hand cover her mouth.

He barreled onward, not wanting to stop on any of that. "Three years I spent in the camp. We were beaten and barely kept alive. I used my medical training to help as many of my fellow prisoners as I could. But the tide started to turn in the war and fewer and fewer supplies were sent to the camps. The Japanese fed and clothed themselves and mostly ignored the rest of us. One lad, he'd been small when he was captured, he was dying of starvation. We all were. I was doing slightly better than the rest, however, and I knew I had to help. I was able to sneak into the officer's mess. I found a can of pineapple. I was going to steal it to feed the others. But I was caught. I was caught and…"

For some reason, the words would not come. He'd gotten this far but could go no further. There were no words for what had happened, what had been done to him. He wished every single day that he had died when that bomb had gone off, that he had been killed instead of captured, that he did not have to suffer the loss of his family, that he did not have to endure what became of him after.

Knowing that there was no better way to explain, Lucien stood up. He pulled off his cassock and unbuttoned his shirt as Mrs. Beazley watched him in horror. He shrugged the shirt off his shoulders and turned around so his back was to her. And he stripped off his vest to reveal the truth to her.


	21. Chapter 21

**XXI**

Jean was overcome by the horror of what she saw. It was unimaginable, that such vicious wounds should have been inflicted upon him. She had seen him in only his vest and trousers before, had seen the immense bulging muscles of his arms and shoulders. But she had not seen his back before. She had no idea what awaited there. Thick ropes of white scar tissue all over him. What must have caused such injuries…beatings, whippings, canings? What had they done to punish his desperate attempt to feed his fellow prisoners?

As she stared, he simply stood there, waiting for her to react. He was patient. He did not move or twitch at all. And she just stared. She was not sure for how long. At some point, she had started crying, though she did not notice until the tears spilled down her cheeks some onto her lips. Everything in her ached for him. For somehow, deep within her, though she had never been hurt like he had, though she had not seen Christopher die with her own two eyes, she nevertheless _knew_ what Lucien's pain was. This pain that caused him to drink himself into oblivion to keep the nightmares away. Jean had felt that pain. She had felt the empty maw within her as everything she had ever wanted and everything she had ever known was piece by piece ripped from her without so much warning or preparation. She had not been imprisoned by the Japanese, but rather locked away within herself by her circumstances. Oh she had done her best to rise above her humble beginnings, her shameful marriage, her heartbreaking miscarriage, her pitiful widowhood and renewed poverty and never-ending loneliness. But bit by bit, parts of her had died along the way, leaving her as raw and hard and scarred inside as Lucien was outside.

She did not realize she was doing it, nor did she stop herself once she began. But she stood from the sofa and crossed toward where Lucien stood. Her fingertips ghosted over his back, tracing his scars. Lucien hissed in surprise at her touch, his posture stiffening as though he were being burned. But he did not pull away. He did not speak. He allowed her this quiet exploration in the dim light of the parlor.

And as her hands moved over him, she leaned in closer. She could feel him shiver as her breath touched his skin. Then, without a single thought as to why or whether she should, Jean pressed her lips to his scarred back. She was drawn to him, somehow, compelled by a power she could not possibly begin to understand and had no impulse to question. There was only that twisting, all-consuming ache within her that, as soon as she touched him, she felt lessen. His skin was warm. Hot, even. His body was solid and strong and his scars were evidence of wounds that had healed, proof of his strength in spite of everything that had torn him down. And when Jean touched him, she felt as though a little of that strength was in her, too. That emptiness was filling back up, somehow. Just a little.

* * *

He tried to stay calm, he really did. Tried to stay still and hold his breath and not break the magic spell that was Jean's hands and lips caressing his back. But it was more than he could bear. The tenderness of her touch. The realization that she had not looked upon him with horror or with pity but with _care_. How did she do that? Why oh why did she do that? How was it that every awful thing about him that would have sent any sane person running for the hills seemed to beckon her closer? How could it be that his every weakness was met by her with such immense, beautiful care?

Lucien could stay still and quiet no longer. For it did not escape him that this was the first time since Mei Lin that any person had ever held him or touched him this way. With gentleness and tenderness and care. He tried to suppress the sobs that wracked through him, but he couldn't. He gasped for air and felt tears prick his eyes.

Jean's hands snaked around him and held him tight. "Shh, it's alright, Lucien. You're safe now," she murmured into his skin.

But that wasn't right. That wasn't right at all. He wasn't safe. Not here. Not like this. "Jean," he rasped out in warning. "Jean, you mustn't."

"Shh," she whispered, covering his back in her kisses.

He allowed the indulgence for a moment longer before his shaking hands found hers and pried them off him. Lucien turned to face her. "You know we can't," he said softly. The both of them stared at each other, trembling. They were so close. The air was thick between them. Lucien felt it quite difficult to breathe, though he endeavored to keep from having his chest heaving with the effort. He wished beyond reason that he could pull her into his arms and hold her and feel her body pressed against him, feel the warmth of her touch all over him and not just the lingering ghosts of it on his back.

She broke the stillness by taking one of her hands away from him and reached up to wipe a stray tear from his cheek. "I know," she replied with a sad smile. Her lips were pressed in a thin line as her eyes, big and expressive and gray in this pale light, searched his face for some excuse they could cling to as to why they were both wrong.

"I think it would be best if you go," Lucien suggested, though his heart screamed out against the very idea of being left alone without her.

But Jean shook her head. "Not just yet." Still shaking slightly, she stepped away from him and bent down to pick up his discarded shirt, handing it to him to put on and cover himself. She turned and sat back down on the sofa. "You've not told me the rest of the story."

Lucien did up a few buttons but left the shirt untucked as he sat back down in his chair. "Rest of the story?"

"You survived, Lucien," she reminded him. "You told me you drink because of the war, because of the horrors of it all. But how on earth did that lead you here?"

His lips twitched in a small smile. "You mean how did I end up a priest?"

"Yes."

"My punishment was to be kept in a hole and whipped every single day. And I was otherwise left completely alone and in the dark. I wanted more in that time than ever before to die. I begged for it. I prayed to God to let me die, to end my suffering. I cursed God for abandoning me in the world. I screamed out that there was no God at all. And in the midst of my cursing, she appeared."

"She?"

Lucien shook his head in disbelief, for how could it be that he was really telling her this, of all things? This one foolish moment of delirium brought on by starvation and fever and pain and infection and disease after three years in that camp and three months in that hole. "I had a vision of the Virgin Mary. The very picture of her as Michelangelo sculpted her in the Pietà, ethereal and beautiful and glowing. And when she spoke, it was the voice of my mother."

Jean's eyes went wide in shock.

"She told me that I would not die. That there was more to do. She reminded me of my strength and she promised that she was with me."

"Oh Lucien," Jean breathed.

"And the next day, the camp was liberated. I was sent to an army hospital for recovery and immediately upon my discharge, I traveled to Melbourne to attend seminary. And here I am. Almost fifteen years later," he concluded.

Jean searched his face for a moment, looking as though there were a dozen questions on the tip of her tongue. He welcomed them, in that moment. He wanted to know what she was curious about and he wanted to tell her anything she wanted to know. But instead, she stood up and all she said was, "I think it's time I got dinner started."

Lucien stood as well. "No, I think perhaps you should go, Mrs. Beazley." He'd been thinking of her as Jean, and he couldn't do that. He had done too much, been too reckless with the boundary between them. Had enjoyed it far too much.

A small smile crossed her lips. "I don't really want to go," she admitted quietly.

"I don't want you to go, either," he confessed in return.

She sighed, "And I suppose that's precisely why I need to go."

"Yes," he agreed.

Mrs. Beazley nodded resolutely. "Goodnight, Father Blake." She turned to collect her purse and jacket from where they waited by the door.

"Goodnight, Mrs. Beazley," he bid her in response.

She let herself out and closed the door behind her. Lucien sat back down in his chair.


	22. Chapter 22

**XXII**

They tiptoed around each other for over a week. Both polite and conciliatory and distant in a way they'd never been before. Mrs. Beazley came to the rectory and did her tasks in the kitchen and in the garden and in the church and then left. Lucien did not speak to her unless directly relevant to the task at hand. And God did he hate it.

He had felt so much better, initially, for having told her the truth. He had found it within him to trust someone, to share his burdens with one who did not scorn him for his weakness. But the trust and affection between them had already passed too far beyond that of a priest and parishioner. Certainly past an employer and employee. Even past a pair of friends. He was drawn to her in a way that was so unspeakably dangerous. And when she had touched him, when he had felt her hands and lips on his bare body—on his scars, of all places—he had quite nearly snapped right then and there.

Now, his resolve was still weakened beyond what he had imagined possible. He forced himself to remain sober at all times. The first night had been the worst, as the withdrawal had nearly killed him. But by the time she had come to make breakfast for him, he showered the sweat off his body and hid his trembling through breakfast and was fine after that. The nightmares were still present. He barely slept. But without the whiskey in his veins, he knew he could remain stronger for them both. Mrs. Beazley was a good woman and would not initiate anything between them, he knew. If he remained as he needed to, she would follow his lead. It would only be if he showed her his weakness again that she might do the same.

Funny how nothing had gotten him to stop drinking before this. He hadn't even stopped when a stranger found him passed out under the willow tree. Mrs. Beazley had taken care of him after that, after he'd realized he needed help. But he'd not given up the whiskey. Now, though, the situation felt much direr. It wasn't just his reputation that would be besmirched if he was found drunk. No, he needed to protect more than just that. He needed to protect her.

But Christ, did he miss her. He'd gotten out of the habit of using the Lord's name in vain, but it was certainly warranted here, in his mind. For those months that they had spent together, growing ever closer, Lucien had gotten to have a friend for the first time in such a long while. He'd had a companion to share his time and his tasks and his humor. He liked talking to her, liked sitting with her while he had breakfast and she drank her tea, liked teaching catechism with her, liked debating subjects for his homilies. She still sat with him at breakfast and still assisted in catechism, but the spark between them that had made all of that so enjoyable had been snuffed out by the both of them. And he missed her very much.

His wandering thoughts were interrupted by a parishioner opening the curtain to the confessional. He needed to focus on what he was supposed to be doing. In helping others he could at the very least distract from his own worries.

"Bless me Father, for I have sinned."

The sound of that voice took him by surprise. He'd never heard that voice say those words before. And he was so caught off guard that he forgot his place. "Jean, what are you doing here?"

She sighed audibly. "I don't know why I bothered. If you'd listened to my confession like any other priest, I think I'd have been more upset."

"I am sorry, should we start again?" he offered.

"No, no. It was silly of me to try," she said sadly.

"Would you like to tell me what's bothering you, Mrs. Beazley?" It was the least he could do, after all, to allow her to speak her mind. Though he had some sense of what she had wanted to confess.

"I think you should call me Jean," she said, not quite answering his question.

"Oh, I don't know if that…"

"Do you know why I've never confessed to you before?" she asked, cutting him off.

"No, but I have wondered," he replied.

"I know that all sins are sins, but I've never felt particularly guilty over the little ones. Envy and pride and such. That's just part of being human, isn't it? And if we view our very humanity on par with theft and murder and adultery, how can we be forgiven for one and not another?"

"Yes, I quite agree," he said softly.

"I had a feeling you might. I have gone to Confession before, when I was young and didn't know the difference yet. And I have confessed my greatest sins. Christopher and I, before we were married. The anger I felt over his going to war and then after his death when I knew it was my fault."

Lucien nearly interjected to ask what she meant by that, but this was not the time.

She went on, "But I've not done anything in a very long time that I thought warranted Confession. Until…until now."

"Oh?"

Jean raised her hand and pressed it against the thin wooden screen that separated the confessor from the priest. Her fingertips curled over the sides. He could see that one of her red-painted nails was chipped, something he'd never before seen on her hands. "Lucien, the way I…" Her voice shook and she paused, reconsidering her words. "You are a _priest_," she said desperately. "And the way I feel about you is…"

He could not stop himself. He raised his own hand to touch hers, his fingers atop hers. "I know, Jean. I know. And I don't know what to do."

"We crossed a line that night," she said, and he knew precisely what she meant. "We crossed a line and we've tried to take it back, but I don't think we can."

"I have hated the way things have been between us. I've missed you so much. The way things were…before," he told her.

"But it's a sin, isn't it? I don't quite know what to call it. Lust, maybe, but it's…it's more than that."

Lucien's heart thundered in his chest. To know, in plain words, that she felt just as he did, that she was struggling as he was. "It is much more than that," he agreed. It was love, he knew. But he did not dare to say it. It would not be right to tell her that, not now, not when they were both so troubled and they were in the church and in the confessional, of all places.

"And it is a sin," she added.

That, he did not agree with. Sins were things that hurt others. That violated the laws of God, not just the laws of the Church. It had taken him a long time to fully understand the distinction. He had a feeling that Jean would understand, though, again, this was not the time to bring it up. But the love he felt for her could not be a sin. Who did it hurt? What law were they breaking? Love between two people was a divine gift. That, he believed more than anything else. Its rarity and its power and its beauty…love could be nothing short of divine. If nothing else, he had to hold on to that.

"Lucien, should we…should we pray?" Jean asked nervously. Her hand was still beneath his and he had been silent far too long for her comfort, it seemed.

"I know I am not the one who is supposed to be confessing, but I think you should know that I have not prayed outside of Mass for my own purposes in over a decade," he told her.

"What?" she asked in surprise. She took her hand away from his, and the loss of her touch wounded him.

Lucien swallowed hard and said, "God has never answered my prayers since I became a priest. Not once. I don't think He listens to me. If He even exists."

"Don't say that, Lucien," Jean whispered.

He knew she was probably just afraid of the lack of direction, of his failure to ease her discomfort. But her rejection of his words, her lack of compassion with what was perhaps his most shameful secret after his failures during the war, her reaction was a hot knife through his heart. "Perhaps I shouldn't have bothered to confess anything."

"Perhaps I shouldn't have either."

With that, she stood up and left the confessional. He heard her shoes on the marble floors get quieter and quieter as she left. And in a fit of frustration, Lucien balled up his fist and slammed it against the wooden screen. It was delicate wood, and his force was great. It shattered on impact and the splinters cut his knuckles. His hand bloomed with pain and blood. Lucien just sat there and stared at his wounds.


	23. Chapter 23

**XXIII**

Lucien was pleased that no one bothered him during the rest of the time for Confession that day. He did not know what he would have done, should anyone have come by to whine about their silly sins to him then. Not to mention the fact that the screen between priest and confessor was a splintered mess. That certainly would have bothered people. He'd need to see to that first thing.

He left the confessional and hurried out of St. Catherine's and across the grounds to the rectory. As he walked, he tried to remember if the phone number for the chap who did carpentry work for the church was in his office or somewhere in the rectory. Probably in the office. He'd call later. But first he'd need to look after his hand. The blood was starting to dry, but there was probably a fair number of wood splinters caught in the wounds he'd have to find a way to pick out. Using the tweezers with his left hand was going to be an interesting chore.

But when he went in the front door, he was utterly shocked to see Mrs. Beazley's jacket and handbag there in the entryway as always. He had assumed, after their difficult talk, that she had gone home. Part of him wanted her to go home, as he did not know how to face her now. Part of him was immensely grateful that he had another chance to try and explain things.

"Jean?" he called out.

"Kitchen," she called back.

He braced himself, unsure of the mood she was in. "I didn't expect you'd be here," he began as he walked in and found her making two cups of tea.

"I nearly went home, but we've got catechism class later today. I still have a job to do, no matter how I feel about it," she said, barely looking up at him.

"You needn't be here if you don't want to be, Jean," he told her softly. "Especially now, I…I don't want you to feel pressured or…or obligated."

She gave the smallest hint of a smile. "Not pressured. But still obligated. But I think that's for the best."

He did not entirely know what she meant so he just nodded and said, "Perhaps."

Jean's eyes went wide all of a sudden. "What have you done to your hand?!"

Lucien hesitated, bringing the bloody mess up. "I…erm…"

She rolled her eyes and scoffed, "Oh come here."

He crossed the kitchen to her. Jean's reticence and nervousness from before had evaporated as she took charge of the task before her. She took his hand, carefully but firmly, and ran the cold water from the tap over it. He hissed at the slight sting of it. But the dried blood washed away. She rubbed her fingers over the stubborn spots, careful to avoid the wounds themselves.

"Sit down in your armchair," she instructed. "I'm going to get some wrappings and I want to have the light from that lamp so I can make sure there's nothing caught in there."

"Thank you," he answered softly.

She paused slightly, searching his face. But she just gave a curt nod and hurried out of the room. Lucien did as he was told, turning on the lamp and sitting down. Jean was back before he knew it with some gauze and tape and a set of tweezers from his bathroom. Obviously she'd figured out where he kept his medical supplies. He wasn't a doctor anymore, but for various accidents like this, he liked having some things on hand.

Jean sat on the arm of the chair and took his hand to hold under the light. He watched her turquoise eyes scrutinize the scrapes and cuts on his knuckles.

"What did you put your fist through?" she asked.

"The screen in the confessional. After you left," he admitted.

She plucked a tiny sliver out of one of his cuts, causing him to flinch with the sting of it. "So this is wood?" she asked.

He nodded.

Jean sighed, still focused on his hand. "Oh Lucien."

"You seem to know what you're doing there," he noted.

She hummed. "Plenty of practice cleaning off bloody and bruised knuckles."

"Husband or sons?"

"Both. My Christopher was quick to get in a fight in a pub. I patched him up more times than I could count. And then our Jack had a tendency to get into trouble. I hoped he'd grow out of it, take after young Christopher, but he never did."

"They were lucky to have you to take care of them."

Her lips twitched slightly, but she did not answer.

Lucien let silence fall between them before broaching the important subject. "I think we should continue our conversation from before. Before you left and I put my fist through a wooden screen."

She looked up into his eyes. "Yes, I think so. I'm sorry I was short with you. I…"

"Yes?" he prompted.

Jean had finished cleaning the wounds at that point. She dabbed a bit of antiseptic ointment from the tube in her lap and then went about bandaging his hand. "It was foolish of me to come to you in Confession."

"No," he disagreed, "it was a good place for us to talk."

"But we couldn't talk as ourselves there. And that's what we should have done. I shouldn't have been so much of a coward. Because sitting in that confessional, I needed you to be my priest. But you're…you're not. Not in that way," she said.

An ache in his chest constricted him at her words. The idea that he had let her down—her, of all people!—wounded him to his core. But she was right. He could not give her support and absolution and strength. Not about this. "I can't be your priest, Jean," he told her softly.

"I know. And that's why I got cross. But I shouldn't have expected it of you." She finished taping the gauze on his hand and lifted it to press her lips to his fingers. "I don't want you to be my priest, Lucien," she murmured.

* * *

Jean gazed at his face as she held his hand, having bandaged his wound. He looked at her with such awe. Such reverence and such affection. He'd looked at her that way before, though she could not quite recall when that had begun. All Jean knew was that when Lucien looked at her that way, her doubts melted away. He wasn't Father Blake, he wasn't a priest, and this bloom of love they shared was not deeply wrong. No, when he looked at her like this, he was only Lucien, a man who loved her, and she was only a woman who loved him in return.

The longing she felt for him was overwhelming sometimes. She had gone to Confession because she hadn't known what else to do, hadn't known how to speak to him otherwise. She knew now that was a mistake. Because they could not be Jean and Lucien inside St. Catherine's. Only here, in the safety of these four walls could they be themselves.

"Come here, please," he said softly, gently holding her hand in his injured one and pulling her towards him.

She smiled, pushing the first aid materials off her lap and moving to sit on his. Lucien wrapped her arms around her, one around her back and one resting on her hip. Jean tucked herself within his embrace, feeling all at once safe and electrified by this closeness. It was folly, surely, but she couldn't worry about that now. She wanted this. She wanted him. She wanted to be held in his arms now and always.

For over a week, things had been strained between them. Ten days, in fact, since she had stood right beside where they sat now, and tenderly kissed the scars on his back. Another foolish thing she shouldn't have done. She was glad she had. And she was glad she allowed him to hold her like this now.

"What do we do, Lucien?" she whispered.

He hugged her tighter. "I don't know," he replied. He'd said that before. In Confession. Though it was different now. He continued, "I don't want to try to hide how I feel anymore. I thought I could be strong enough for the both of us, to keep away from you."

"You did?" she asked in slight disbelief. Since when was he the one to be strong and follow the rules?

"I don't know if you've noticed, but I've given up drinking."

She gasped in slight surprise. "Completely?"

"For now, yes. I don't know that I'll continue with nothing but communion wine, but I needed to…"

Jean traced the line of his beard with her fingertips. "You needed to what?"

He sighed sadly. "I needed to be sober to keep away from you."

"And what do you call this?" she teased.

Lucien buried his face against her shoulder. "I can't bear it, Jean."

She stroked his hair gently. "I know," she whispered. "I know."

Eventually they would need to get ahold of themselves and go to the church and set up for catechism and retain normalcy around the children. There was still a few hours till then, thankfully, and there was still much to discuss. Only perhaps not just now. Jean did not want to return to the real world just yet. She wanted to hold him a little while longer. She wanted to be held like this by the man she loved. She wanted to be with him just like this, in the safe haven of each other's arms. For now, the tea in the kitchen would grow cold and everything would be alright. Just for now.


	24. Chapter 24

**XXIV**

It was Sunday again. Jean was going with the Collins family to Mass and then a luncheon at their home. It was so nice that they still invited her, though she was no longer freshly new in town. But she counted the family among her few friends in town, and she enjoyed the company. Little Joseph Collins was excited about the nativity play, as he had been cast as one of the wise men.

"I wanted to be Joseph because my name is Joseph, but the older kids get to be Mary and Joseph," he told her.

They spent the rest of the walk discussing what he wanted for his costume, as Jean had volunteered to help make them for the children. It meant a lot of nights alone with her sewing machine, but she was happy to do it. She'd always enjoyed sewing. And she'd made costumes for the children in Ballarat as well.

Mass went as it always did. Mrs. Williams led the choir in their hymns. Ned and Peter served at the altar. Father Blake gave his lovely but somewhat odd homily—this one part of the advent in the lead up till Christmas. Jean watched him with appreciation and affection, as always.

It was strange, the way the vision of Lucien, the man she loved, and Father Blake, the priest she admired and worked for, were starting to become more of the same person. There had been such a divergence before, between that sad drunk and that brilliant priest. It seemed the more she learned of Lucien, the more she understood Father Blake. And while his title and position still presented the most dire of problems for them, she was able to see him in his vestments, presiding over the congregation like this, and still see him as her Lucien. She was proud of the work he did and proud to assist him in it. And just watching him here like this made her love him even more.

Jean and the Collins family did not linger after Mass ended. She shared a smile with Lucien before she left. She would see him in the morning for breakfast as usual.

As they walked back to their neighborhood, Mrs. Collins and Jean caught up. "How is working for Father Blake?" she asked.

"It's very good," Jean replied. "A bit difficult at first, just adjusting to what he needed from me and learning about this church versus my old one. But we get on quite well." She could have kicked herself for that last bit. Got on quite well indeed. That was not something she should be telling people. Particularly not with the Father Blake everyone else knew. He was a kind man and a good priest to them, but he was not overly personable or friendly. After all, other than visiting the sick and dying, Jean was rather sure he never bothered to see anyone outside of church services and Confession. It was only Jean who had that privilege. And it would not do well to draw too much attention to that fact. Particularly not now.

"I mean, what sorts of things do you do?" Mrs. Collins pressed.

It was a fair question, she supposed. No one had much idea of what she did. And Jean herself hadn't really known for a while. Early on, her main job was keeping the priest alive and competent, what with the incessant drinking that threatened his reputation, his job, and his very life. But over time, of course, her duties had changed. Now it was more of doing anything that she saw needed doing. "Whatever is needed. He is mostly able to keep house for himself, but I make him breakfast to start the day and do a bit of tidying when needed. I planted a garden behind the rectory and I use the flowers to make the arrangements for inside St. Catherine's. Sometimes I assist in his preparations for the homily, letting him bounce ideas off someone. I've cleaned pews on occasion. I help teach catechism to the children. Just whatever's needed." And all of that was quite true. Jean did all those things. Nothing untoward about any of it. The personal things, the ways they had learned each other's pasts and tragedies and secrets, those things that had caused them to fall in love and into their current mess, none of that was really very related to the work she did for Father Blake. None of that was to be shared with her neighbors.

"Sounds like a lot of work," Mrs. Collins replied. "And I suppose it makes you wonder what he did before you came along."

_Got piss drunk and whined a lot_, Jean thought to herself. But Mrs. Collins did have a point. It seemed incredible that Lucien had been able to manage on his own for so long. Thought Jean now knew that he was so incredibly unhappy all those years, so lonely and alone. He did the minimal amount of work he needed for the parish just to get by because it was all he had. That wasn't the case anymore.

Over lunch, the conversation was dominated by Mr. Collins complaining about the difficulties he was having with the factory workers' union. He worked for the town council and regulating the factories and managing negotiations between the union and the management took up most of his time. Jean had no experience with anything remotely like that, so she found it quite interesting.

The telephone rang and Mr. Collins went to answer it while Mrs. Collins served second helpings of pie. Maggie then asked Mrs. Beazley about her costume for the nativity play. She'd been cast in the coveted role of Mary, and she wanted to look beautiful for the part. Jean thought it was more to do with impressing Peter, who was serving as the narrator, but it honored the Virgin Mary as well for Maggie to look nice in the role. They discussed fabrics and designs and such with Joseph giving his opinion along the way, annoying Maggie to no end.

Jean enjoyed being with the Collins family. They were a nice bunch and they reminded her of what it was like to have a family, to be part of all the talking and laughing and bickering and practicality of getting everyone through the day, safe and well. It gave her a pang of loneliness, knowing her boys were so far away, knowing that having a family of her own like this was a thing of the past.

As soon as lunch was over, Jean excused herself to go back home. She'd gotten herself a bit maudlin and wanted to be alone. She went inside her pretty little house. Unconsciously, she gave a sigh of relief. She felt safe her. At home here. Every little thing was hers and hers alone.

Alone.

Without a second thought, Jean turned right around and walked out of the house again. And she did not stop walking until she passed the old willow tree and made her way behind St. Catherine's to the rectory and knocked on the door.

Lucien answered it quite quickly. "Jean!" he greeted in surprise. "Come in."

She went inside and let him close the door behind her. She noticed he'd removed his cassock, as he always did when his priestly duties were done for the day. He wore only his white shirt with its sleeves pushed up and the top two buttons undone and tucked into a pair of black trousers. He looked absolutely gorgeous.

"This is a surprise. Is anything wrong?" he asked her.

Jean did not normally see him after Mass on Sundays unless there was an obvious need. Her showing up was certainly out of the ordinary. Though everything nowadays felt somehow out of the ordinary. "I was just wondering if maybe we could have a cup of tea."

"Of course," he replied. He gave her an odd look, likely because she did not answer his question of whether anything was wrong. And there wasn't anything wrong. Not really. Only the obvious things. The things they couldn't do anything about.

Jean put her handbag down where she always left it and made her way to the kitchen. Lucien followed close behind. She put the kettle on and he moved past her to get down the mugs from the cabinet. As he passed by, his hands landed on her shoulders and ghosted down her back until the rested on her hips. A shiver passed through her, just as it did every time he touched her.

The both of them froze, lost in the moment. She turned to look up at him and found his eyes shining with affection and concern.

"What are you doing here, Jean?" he asked softly.

She swallowed hard. "I missed you," she confessed.

He slowly leaned in and Jean's eyes fluttered closed. But at the last moment, she turned her head. His lips landed at the corner of her mouth. She could feel his breath on her cheek and the slight scratch of his beard. The butterflies in her stomach fluttered at the feel of him, the anxiety and the desire churning within her in equal measure.

Before things could go any further, she pulled back. "Tea," she reminded. Hopefully he did not notice the way her voice shook.

He let out a slow breath and nodded in response. "Yes. Tea."


	25. Chapter 25

**XXV**

Jean loved Christmastime. She loved the joy in the warm air, she loved the songs, she loved the rituals and traditions, she loved the excitement of the children, and she loved that in all the years she'd been without a family of her own, she was able to feel part of everyone else's.

This year was very different than all those in the past, of course. Christopher had sent her a present, which was very sweet, and she'd of course already sent ones to him and his wife, Ruby. She sent one for Jack, as well, for Christopher to forward on to his wayward younger brother.

But Jean did not have a tree of her own to decorate and place gifts under this year. She had always put one up for Doctor Blake. He never bothered with any of it, but she knew he had enjoyed seeing it. The ornaments were old and beautiful. He once told her they had belonged to his wife; some she had brought over from France and some she had painted herself. Jean thought they were beautiful and she'd kept them when Doctor Blake died. Now she was even gladder that she had.

Lucien had ordered an enormous tree for St. Catherine's to sit in the corner by the door and, at Jean's request, he had ordered a much smaller one for the rectory. And a week before Christmas, she had surprised him with the ornaments that had once belonged to his father that she had kept. They decorated the tree together and he told her the most wonderful stories about all the ornaments he remembered from his childhood. He'd nearly begun to cry when it was all said and done. They sat on the sofa together, snuggled up and sharing a bit of Lucien's whiskey—he only drank with her nowadays—and gazed at their beautiful tree.

Today, however, it was time to decorate the big tree inside the church. Jean had collected her prized flowers from both her garden at home and the rectory to create the most beautiful displays she could imagine. Lucien was up on a ladder stringing the lights and tinsel.

"Did you used to do this all yourself?" she asked him, wondering how he'd ever managed.

"Oh no, the volunteers would usually take care of everything. I didn't care at all," he told her.

"But now you do care?"

He smiled down at her from where he stood atop the ladder. "Yes. Now I care. When the inquiries about the decorations started coming in, I thanked everyone for the offer and politely declined. I thought it would be more fun for us to do it ourselves."

"Yes, it is nice," she agreed.

Lucien came down from the ladder and stepped back to examine his work. Jean joined him, resting her head on his shoulder. He wrapped his arm around her waist. "I think it's looking alright, don't you?" he asked.

"Yes, I think so. But you're missing a patch up there of the tinsel."

"Where?" he asked somewhat frantically.

She laughed, unable to help herself. "I'm teasing. You've done a wonderful job, Lucien."

He turned and just beamed at her, his hands resting loosely on her hips.

Jean in turn placed her hands on his chest, doing her best to ignore the white collar denoting his position that they both flouted nowadays. "What are you smiling at?" she asked.

"You. I do love it when you say my name, Jean."

She felt herself blush and smile in return. She liked it when he said her name, too. "Enough of that for now," she chided, patting his chest and stepping away. "I'll go get that next box of decorations for the storage cupboard."

"Need any help?"

"No, I can manage," she replied.

* * *

Lucien watched as Jean walked away through the nave of the church to the hallway leading to the storage room. He quite enjoyed how she walked. The extremely seductive swish of her hips. Christ, she was beautiful. It boggled the mind to think that he now quite regularly got to hold her in his arms and call her by her name and hear her call him Lucien and smile at him. He loved her quite desperately, and the tenuous barriers that still kept them apart were in great danger of shattering. Part of him was terrified of that, of crossing the line and breaking his vows wholly and completely. But part of him—a much bigger part, if he was honest with himself—was aching to crash through that divide and be with her properly.

At any moment of any given day, there was a refrain in Lucien's head, calling out to him, calling out to her: _I want you, I need you, I love you_. Thus far, he had been able to resist giving it voice. He did not know how much longer he'd be able to. How much longer he'd bear keeping himself from her.

He shook himself. Enough of that for now. There were things to do. A tree to decorate. And though she'd said she was teasing, Lucien could see now that there was actually a patch of the tree he'd missed with the tinsel.

Jean returned soon enough, carrying an enormous box. Lucien rushed to help her. "Here, give me that," he offered.

"I told you, I can manage," she insisted.

"Alright, have it your way," he conceded.

She carried the box all the way over to the tree, though he did hover nearby in case she faltered. She didn't, of course. Jean never faltered. She knew what she was about. She could do anything.

"Right, this box has the ornaments and some garland for other parts of the church if you want to get a start on that," Lucien suggested.

Jean nodded and took the long lines of shimmering garland out of the box and carefully took them over to one of the side chapels. Lucien got started with the ornaments. These weren't nearly as nice as the ones Jean had brought for the little tree at the rectory. He couldn't even put into words what it meant to him that she had saved his mother's ornaments. Of course, she hadn't known that at the time. But she had wanted to save those decorations from her time with his father. She'd told him how she would decorate a tree by herself every year and Dad would only ever say that it looked nice. But apparently he'd told Jean a story or two about some of the ornaments and those stories made them special to her. They were special to him, too. He could still see it in his mind's eye, helping his mother take each delicate glass bauble out of the box, unwrapping them from their paper protection and hanging each one carefully up on the tree. The tree was always small and set up on a table in the front window of the house, he recalled. There were glass balls from France, there were porcelain bells hand-painted by his mother, and there was even one that he'd written his name inside. He'd gotten to show that to Jean. She was amazed she'd never noticed it before, in all the years she'd been putting it up on a tree.

Thinking about Jean made Lucien want to be with her. So, under the guise of checking on her progress, he abandoned his task and went to the shadowy chapel off to the side where she was humming to herself and hanging garland.

"How's it going?" he asked, approaching her from behind.

"Oh just fine. Do you think the gold looks alright here?" she asked in return. Her arms were stretched up as she secured the garland on the molding that framed the chapel entrance.

"Beautiful," he replied. Though he was more admiring her than the garland.

Jean tacked up the garland and then turned to face him. "Look what else I found," she said, holding up something in her hand.

He took a step closer to see what it was. The light was quite dim over in this little corner of the church. "Is that mistletoe?"

"I think it is," she said with a light laugh. "Some of those volunteers must have hidden it amongst the decorations. Heaven knows what for."

"Well, I think it's obvious what for," he replied.

She hummed in agreement. "True." Jean spun the little dried sprig in her fingers. "My very first kiss was under the mistletoe just before Christmas."

"Oh? Was that with your Christopher?" he asked, delighting in the image of Jean, young and lithe and lovely and blushing as she had her very first kiss.

"No, actually. It was a boy in my class named David. We were eight years old. We both had older brothers and sisters, and he told me that his sister said when you see mistletoe, you're supposed to kiss. So I told him to go ahead and do it, and he did," she laughed. "Not the most proper kiss in the world, but it was very sweet. Poor thing couldn't look me in the eye for a year after."

"Well, I'm sure he was just nervous. All boys are awkward around girls when they're young."

Jean scoffed, "I can't imagine you ever were."

"I just hid it better than the others," he whispered conspiratorially.

She laughed at that. And then, without any other warning, Jean held the mistletoe up over their heads, got up on her tiptoes and pressed her lips to his.


	26. Chapter 26

**XXVI**

Jean pulled back and gazed up at him, smiling but questioningly. Lucien was in slight shock. He'd not expected her to kiss him. Not anticipated the feeling of her soft lips against his, the slight tickle of her breath on his face. And he could not resist her.

He gathered her in his arms and kissed her again. This time it was she who was surprised. A little whimper escaped her, but her free hand came up to hold the back of his neck, anchoring him to her.

Their lips moved together fervently. Lucien could barely breathe. All he wanted to do was stay just like this with her forever, to hold her and kiss her and pour every ounce of his love for her into this moment. That damnable love. He burned for her, here and now, and he would burn for her for all eternity, surely. But it was worth it to love her. It did not cross his mind as he felt the caress of her tongue in his mouth that they should stop, that what they did was wrong. It was, of course. It was wrong. But it did not matter to him now.

Jean took his bottom lip between her teeth and lightly sucked on it. His stomach flipped inside him, and he held her even tighter. His hands wandered the expanse of her back. She was so lithe and delicate in his arms. His two hands seemed to cover her completely. He could probably encircle her slim waist between his fingers. But she was so warm and soft like this, pressed up against him.

"Lucien," she moaned against his mouth. The sound of her lovely voice only caused him to redouble his efforts. But she turned her head away from him. "Lucien," she repeated, slightly more firmly.

He had to stop, then. It was murder to stop, but he had to. He still held her in his arms, still needed to keep her close. He looked down at her, seeing the way her lips were swollen from his attentions, feeling the way their heavy breathing kept them pressed together. But he also saw the sadness in her eyes that reminded him of the truth.

"We can't," she said regretfully.

Lucien nodded. "I know." But neither of them made any attempt to move or to let go of each other.

"I'm so sorry," Jean apologized.

"No, don't be," he replied. Lucien gently stroked her soft cheek with his fingers. "Please don't be sorry."

"But we can't do this, Lucien," she reminded him. "Especially not here, not in the church, where anyone could see us."

"No one's here, and even if someone walked inside right now, they wouldn't see us here," he pointed out. "But I know you're right. You're right but I wish you weren't."

"Me too," she said sadly. And just for good measure, she leaned in and rested her cheek against his chest. Her face was turned outward, conspicuously away from his collar.

If he could, he would have ripped that collar off right then and there. He'd have stripped off all priestly garb and set fire to the lot of it. Anything to have her. "Jean, I want to be with you," he said softly as they held each other.

"But you can't," she said.

"I could," he dared to venture. "If I left the church. If I resigned and renounced it all, we could be together."

Jean pulled back from him completely now, leaving the warm circle of his arms. She wrapped her own arms around herself, as though to protect from pain inside and out. "No, Lucien, you've made vows. You made them for yourself and to God long before you ever met me. And the parish needs you. You can't turn your back on everything because of me."

"But I love you." The words fell from his lips before he could stop himself. It was a cruel and desperate thing to say, he knew. But the world felt very cruel right about now and he himself quite desperate.

She shook her head, squeezing her eyes shut. "You can't say that. Please, don't."

"I can't help how I feel, Jean."

Her eyes opened, shining with unshed tears. Her chin wobbled. "Neither can I."

Lucien felt his heart breaking in his chest. She as good as told him that she loved him, too. But she was right, of course. She was right in pointing out the impossible situation in which they'd found themselves. She was right to tell him not to sacrifice his livelihood and his very soul for her. For even though they had fallen in love and had shared so much, including that passionate kiss, he had not gone so far as to break his vows. Not yet, anyway.

* * *

Jean was doing everything she possibly could to keep from crying. She did not want to do that here and now with him. He needed her to be strong for him. Just as she had been from the moment they met. It was Jean who looked after Lucien, Jean who cared for him, Jean who made sure he could be alive and able to carry out his duties. It had always been her role, to take care of others. Even as a young girl, she took care of her younger brother. And her older brothers. She took care of her husband and her children, took care of Doctor Blake. And now Lucien. Another man who needed her.

But things were so different than they had ever been before. She'd made difficult decisions, having to curb Christopher's wild habits to make sure the bills were paid—barely—and there was food on the table for the children. She'd needed to be strong then to take care of her family and ensure they could survive and prosper. Well, they'd never really prospered, but they had survived as best they could. She'd done everything she could possibly think of to help lead Jack down a better path and failed to save her son. He was on his own now, and there was nothing more she could do.

Lucien, though, had survived all his life without her. He'd even managed to survive and carry on as a drunk for years and years before they'd met. But he had asked for her help. The only person who had ever asked for her help ever before was his father, Doctor Blake. He'd hired her as a housekeeper because he needed help with the cooking and cleaning and managing the surgery as he got older. But Lucien needed her for something altogether more serious. Jean did cook and clean for him, but that wasn't what he'd wanted help with. No, Lucien, had asked her to help him manage his own misery. He'd not said it in so many words, of course, but that's what it was. It was no wonder they'd fallen in love with the emotional intimacy that duty entailed.

Standing here in the side chapel of St. Catherine's, wrapping her arms around herself to keep from flying apart, Jean could still feel the scratch of his beard on her cheek and the soft tingle of his kiss. Everything in her screamed out for him. She wished more than anything that he would leave the church so that they could be together, but it wasn't fair. It wasn't right. She had a responsibility to keep him functioning as a priest, to help him in that work. And instead, she was leading him astray.

It was just that it had been so bloody long since anyone had wanted her. Truly wanted her. She had been needed before. She had been appreciated before. She had even been courted and admired before in the years since she'd been a widow. But no one had ever known her as Lucien did. And how could anyone ever want her or love her if they did not understand her? But he did. Lucien did. Lucien loved her, though she felt absolutely sick because of it.

Eventually the silence had to break. "You asked me to help you," she said, pushing through the shaking cracking of her voice. "And I think I've done quite the opposite."

Lucien's eyes widened in dismay, and he stepped toward her, gently putting his hands on her upper arms. "Jean, how could you ever think you haven't helped me?"

"You're a priest and offering to give up your calling because of me."

He shook his head. "I only have this calling because I would have died otherwise. Being a priest gave me a reason to force myself to be alive. And all these years, that is all I've done. I have forced myself to stay alive, to get up each day and carry on. But you, Jean, you've given me a reason to _live_. Not the sorry excuse for existence I've muddled through all this time but a true reason. I somehow managed to stay alive through the camp and all the years after to be able to be here with you."

Those were the words that broke her. The tears flowed down her cheeks and she quickly pressed her hand against her mouth to keep from sobbing too loudly. She hadn't realized that she'd still had the dried sprig of mistletoe in her hand, and it fell to the floor unnoticed now.

Lucien pulled her back into his embraced to soothe her as she quietly cried. It wasn't fair that he should care for her this way. It wasn't fair that he should love her and see her as his reason to live. She was not more important than the Church, and it was not fair for him to think she was.

But now he held her in his arms and gently rubbed her back and softly whispered words of comfort, telling her everything would be alright. He couldn't possibly know that. He had no right to say such things. For how could everything be alright when the choice before them both was to love and be loved while ruining the lives of those around them or else do what they should and be damned to suffer apart?

They stood there in the shadows, each of them lost and clinging so desperately to the other. After a while, Lucien did not speak. He just held her. Jean knew it might have to be one of the last times he ever did. It was wrong of her to let things go this far. It was wrong to love him. And it was her job to take care of him. To be strong and to make the right choice for them both. She just didn't know if she could.


	27. Chapter 27

**XXVII**

Lucien was very nearly at the end of his rope. This was not the first time he had felt every second of life to be a torture. He had existed before in unthinkable pain and anguish. He had begged for death if only for a reprieve from existence. This wasn't like that. Not really, anyway. He was not watching those he loved be slaughtered, he was not being beaten within an inch of his life, he was not being sadistically tortured, and he was not starved beyond recognition. He was not a soldier in the camp, and it was important that he remembered that. He had survived worse.

But before now, the emotional pain and guilt had been tempered by physical torment that had largely pushed the emotional aspects aside. And by the time he had been freed and healed, such time and distance had passed that the loss he'd suffered and the horror he'd witnessed became a dull ache. A constant throbbing pain in his heart, but nowhere near the acute trauma it might have otherwise been. The only time it really affected him was in his dreams, which had been difficult enough to bear.

Now, though, was quite different. The pain Lucien felt in his heart and soul was one of lost hope. He'd not had any hope in so long and then to be given that gift and see it ripped away was a pain he'd not been prepared for.

Though really, he'd not been prepared for anything when it came to Jean.

This beautiful, brilliant woman with her strength and unbelievable kindness had become his very heart. He loved her more than he'd thought possible. Especially now. Lucien had not thought himself capable of love anymore. And he'd certainly not thought himself worthy of being loved. Everything about what had come of his relationship with Jean was the very antithesis of why he'd become a priest. That vision of the Virgin Mary and his mother's voice had led him to the Church but it had been the perfect escape. As a priest, he was granted clemency from being a true member of society. He could stay in the rectory and in the church and not interact with the outside world. He could teach and care for his parishioners from an arm's length away. And while he learned their secrets in Confession and eased their worries with his spiritual guidance, they never had to learn the same of him. He did not need to reveal himself to them in order to serve a purpose. It was a lonely and isolating existence that allowed him to still be useful and to help those in need when it was really he himself who had been yearning for that same help. His drinking had been his only companion. And it had suited him just fine.

Only it hadn't, had it? Jean had appeared in his life as a mystical beacon of that strength and kindness that had first interested and detracted him in equal measure. She was too good for him by far, but she did not give up on him. She cared for him. She let him unburden himself to her. And when he'd been sure she'd cast him aside, she had stayed. She had somehow grown to love him as he loved her. And for all the miracle of that love, it had now become his greatest torment.

For two days, Lucien tried to return things to normal with Jean. She continued to come make breakfast for him and chat pleasantly with a cup of tea each morning. She tended the garden and made her flower arrangements for the church. She helped him finish the decorations for Christmas. And she sat in the living room with him in the early evenings while jazz records played on the phonograph while he worked on upcoming sermons and she sewed costumes for the nativity play. It was a comfortable existence. They were happy in each other's company and thankfully had not returned to some of the awkwardness that had ensued after their previous close calls. It very nearly gave the illusion that they were just like everyone else, a normal couple spending a quiet evening at home.

But it was eating him up inside. The divide between them that had been re-erected after they'd crashed through it that afternoon in the chapel was torment beyond his expectations. He knew now what it was to hold her in his arms and to kiss her and to tell her that he loved her. He wanted that back. He wanted it so much he could hardly see straight. So much of being with Jean felt like they could have this kind life together, but it only served to highlight how far apart they truly were. They had come so close and yet were still kept apart in the cruelest of ways, and it was all he could do sometimes to not think about the torture of it all.

That night, after she'd finished her costumes and returned to her own home, Lucien decided to forego dinner. He instead took a bottle of scotch off the shelf—which he'd not needed to indulge in for some time—and tossed the stopper aside. He'd not need it. He was going to drink the suffering away as he'd always done before. For each thought he had of Jean, he would take a punishing swallow of scotch. After so long without it, the burn was not a familiar comfort anymore.

And Lucien wanted to be punished. He wanted to drink away every painful need he had of her. The vision of the way her eyes sparkled when she smiled. He took a drink. The sound of her laughter. He took a drink. The warmth of her hand caressing his face. He took a drink. The feel of her sitting next to him at the piano while they sang together. He took a drink. The way she could cut through his rambling ideas and focus his thoughts so succinctly. He took a drink. The taste of her glorious kiss. He took a drink.

On and on he went, thinking of everything he loved about her and filling himself with the sting of drink for each one. Eventually, however, the bottle was empty. And Lucien could not manage to get up for another. He slumped over on top of his bed, fully clothed with his shoes still on. His eyes would not remain open any longer, so he had to let them close.

His mind was full of Jean. He wished more than anything that she was here with him. He wanted her. He wanted to hold her in his arms. He wanted to hear her breathy moans as he kissed down her neck and chest. He wanted to unzip her tight skirt and unbutton her pretty blouse and strip her of each layer that separated them. He wanted to feel her fingers undo the buttons of his shirt and pull his vest off and rake her fingernails down the plane of his chest. He wanted to see what color slip she wore and see if she would blush when he pulled it over her head. He wanted to unclip her stockings and roll them down each leg, caressing those lean muscles as he did. He wanted to bare her whole body to him, to see if she had scars or freckles or marks on her skin and he wanted to know each and every one of them. He wanted to feel the outline of her body and learn the contours of every curve. He wanted to know what sounds she would make if his mouth trailed down her body to cover her breasts and belly with his kisses. He wanted to know if she would prefer the graze of his teeth or the soft swirl of his tongue over her nipples. He wanted to learn the scent and taste of her if she spread her legs for him to settle between. He wanted to know if she would cry out his name, if her thighs would clench around his ears. He wanted to feel her move against him as he thrust himself inside her. He wanted to know the way she looked and sounded and felt as she trembled with climax in his arms. He wanted to kiss her as he came and collapsed in her loving embrace. He wanted to fall asleep holding her and wake up beside her and never again worry about whether they were too close or doing things they oughtn't just because they were in love. He wanted a life with her. He wanted everything.

Lucien's mind savored these beautiful feelings and for once, he did not remember that he wasn't allowed to have them. He drifted out of consciousness thinking only of Jean.


	28. Chapter 28

**XXVIII**

The brutal sun woke him. Absolutely appalling, it was. Shining through the window without being blocked at all by the curtains. He'd stopped closing the curtains, liking to see the sun shine down on the garden Jean had planted outside his window. Today, he didn't really like much of anything.

Rolling over, away from the window, Lucien groaned aloud. Everything was spinning. He was out of practice drinking a whole bottle of scotch. Damned shame, really. It was worth keeping up the skill just to avoid this torment.

But Lucien had torment enough to spare. He'd been drinking for a reason. Through barely-opened eyes, he could see the clock on the bedside table. Twenty to nine in the morning. Jean would be arriving soon.

Part of him did not want to see her. He was miserable and he didn't want to take it out on her like he used to. But he wanted to see her very much because he loved her and seeing her anytime was a joy. Though maybe not today. Today, nothing felt like a joy. For while the scotch did the job of quieting his mind and knocking him out and keeping the dreams away, it did not solve his problems. The divide between Jean and himself still remained. The hopelessness of their predicament had not changed. They were still doomed to love each other while he was shackled by the priest's collar around his neck.

Lucien did not want Jean to find him in bed in this state. She deserved for him to try just a bit harder than that. As difficult as it was, Lucien hauled himself out of bed and shuffled into the bathroom to relieve himself and splash some water on his face. It didn't help much. As he tried to look at himself in the mirror, all he could see was the gray in his beard and the lines on his face and the bloodshot sorrow in his eyes. What a bloody disgrace he was.

When he couldn't bear to see himself anymore, he shuffled out and into the kitchen. He collapsed down in his usual chair at the table and crossed his arms underneath his head. The room was spinning and he was panting with the pathetic amount of exertion he'd sustained.

About a minute later, he heard the front door open. There was a rustle as Jean was probably taking off her coat and putting her handbag away as usual. "Lucien?" she called out.

It was just too much to contemplate answering her. He just gave a loud groan in response. Maybe it would have been better if he'd stayed in bed. He couldn't make it back there now. He was stuck. And he'd be forced to experience her displeasure and disappointment. She hated when he drank like this, he knew. Before, it had just been a case of her not approving. And then it made her pity him, which prompted him telling her the truth as he had. She had wanted to know what drove him to drink, and he'd told her. He was so sure he'd regret it, but he had not. Not for one second. Because she had come to understand him and to love him. And as much pain as that fact brought him now, how could he ever be sorry that she loved him? How could he ever regret that she had fallen in love with him as he had fallen in love with her?

"Lucien?" Jean called again, this time softer. Her voice was nearer. Her usual practical shoes clicked on the linoleum floor as she approached the kitchen. "Oh dear, what's this?" she asked gently.

He just groaned again.

Jean sighed. "Let me start the kettle. Maybe just some dry toast today," she offered knowingly.

Lucien remained where he was as she started making her way around the kitchen she was so familiar with now. Usually he enjoyed when she cooked for him. She was very good at it. He could do a few simple things on his own, but everything always tasted better when Jean made it. Today, though, he wasn't sure he could stomach anything.

A glass of water was placed down in front of him. "Drink this," she told him softly.

He grumbled and tried to sit up just enough to drink down the water. It did help relieve the cottonmouth he was suffering from. And it helped cool his insides quite nicely. "Thank you," he muttered, putting the empty glass down.

* * *

Jean felt her heart break, seeing him like this. He'd not been drinking in some time. He had told her that he'd stopped in order to keep his wits about him where their relationship was concerned. But of course they'd both lost their wits while entirely sober that day in the church.

Pulling away from Lucien's kiss had been necessary, she knew, but that did not mean she liked it. Quite the opposite, in fact. She wanted nothing more in all the world than to be with him. But to give in to her love for him, to let him turn his back on everything that had been his life all these years, it would be selfish. And if God had not cursed her already for falling in love with a priest, she would surely be damned for taking the priest away from the Church. They both wanted that, she knew. He had even offered it to her. But the guilt of it would eat her alive. She would not be able to have a happy future with him knowing that she had stolen him away from his calling. Regardless of what he himself thought of that calling, he was still a priest. Lucien might not believe in God, but Jean did.

Still, seeing him like this, pained and sick and suffering, Jean could not resist an attempt to properly comfort him. "Feeling any better?" she asked as sympathetically as she could.

"No," he answered gruffly.

He must have been feeling awful. Jean had only been hungover a few times in her life, and she'd never taken to it well. But the amount of alcohol it must have taken to get Lucien to this state frightened her. She had hoped they were past this. "Why, Lucien?"

But he just grumbled incoherently, putting his face in his hands.

Jean crossed to stand behind his chair and rub his shoulders. He made a noise that sounded like pleasure and appreciation, so she kept going. Goodness, even like this, comforting him from feeling horrible, Jean could not help but marvel at his shoulders. Broad and pure hard muscle. She recalled from that night he'd showed her his scars that his body was chiseled with that muscle, and after all he'd survived in his life, it was a marvel that he could still be in such incredible shape.

To keep touching him like this would be folly, so she abandoned the massage and instead ran her fingers through his mussed hair. He whimpered slightly when her nails scratched his scalp.

She leaned forward, wrapping herself around him and pressing a soft kiss to the side of his neck. "I'm sorry you're not feeling well," she whispered.

But that must have been the wrong thing to do. She could feel him tense and stiffen almost immediately. "Stop it, Jean," he growled.

Worried she upset him, she let go and took a step back. "Oh," was all she could say. She did not want to apologize for her affection, for even though they could not be together properly, she still loved him. As a friend above all else. And she would not apologize for wanting to care for him. She had always cared for him before, though obviously in less physically affectionate ways, and she would continue to do so. But not if it would bother him. And he was bothered now.

"Please go," he said, turning to look at her with a cold look in his eyes.

"What?"

"Please." Lucien was begging her now, and she absolutely hated to hear it. "Jean, I can't bear it. Not today. Please. Please, just go."

Jean wished she could stand firm and make him explain, but that would be cruel just now. He was not in any state to have a rational discussion. And besides, she knew why he wanted her to go. She knew that he was hurting and having her close but knowing they could not be closer was painful for him. And it was painful for her, too. It pained her to not be able to do more, to give him more. Jean wanted so very much to hold him in her arms, to kiss him as she pleased, to snuggle against him beneath the covers of a bed they could share and spend all their time together, like a proper couple in love.

But that was not a fate they were allowed to have. Already they'd pushed the boundaries between them too much. To push further and then have to step away would be far too difficult. For both of them. And so Jean would not punish him with her presence any longer.

"Yes, alright. I'll go for today," she conceded. And hopefully tomorrow would be better.


	29. Chapter 29

**XXIX**

Jean could not sleep that night. She'd spent all day at home by herself. She gave some extra attention to her own garden, weeding and trimming and watering. She did laundry and she vacuumed. She took everything out of her refrigerator and gave it a good clean. There were two silver serving platters she had inherited from Doctor Blake that were getting tarnished, so she took to polishing them. All in all, a very full day doing chores she normally did not think of. It was rare that she had the day to herself at home during the week like this. Though it was the last thing she wanted.

All day, she had been at home and not working with Lucien. All day, she had worried about him. All day, she had missed him. And now, lying in her bed and staring up at the shadows on the ceiling, Jean could not get her mind to turn off. She was not the least bit tired, even after all the hard work she'd spent all day doing.

And so, for the first time since she had moved to this town all those many months ago, Jean threw off the bedsheets and put on her shoes and did up a light jacket—being summertime, the evenings were not so very cold—to cover her nightgown, and Jean left her house.

It was a beautiful night. Wandering around and breathing the fresh air would surely help. It would have to. She could walk and work off her nervous energy. The moonlight would surely help calm her down. A walk in the middle of the night was the perfect thing.

Her feet led her where they always seemed to. Each and every day, she walked to St. Catherine's. Depending on the day, she would go straight to the rectory to see Lucien or she would go into the church for Mass. Not tonight. No, tonight Jean stopped under the dark shade of the willow tree. Something about it still drew her in, still captivated her for a reason she could not quite understand. Even before she had first met Lucien underneath that very tree, the sight of a willow tree had been a comfort. Its thin, low-hanging branches whispered in the breeze. There was a beautiful melancholy about the tree. And resting her back against its trunk, caught amongst the rippling ocean of leaves, made her feel safe and secluded and at peace.

But that peace was quickly interrupted. A crash sounded from inside the church. It was the middle of the night, and if there was sound coming from inside St. Catherine's, there were only two possibilities of who could be making it: thieves or Lucien.

Jean hurried up the steps and found the door partly open. As quietly as she could, she slipped inside, tiptoeing so that her shoes would not make sound on the stone floors and she would not attract attention.

And there, beside the altar, was Lucien. He was wearing his dark trousers and a white shirt, untucked and rumpled and with the sleeves rolled up. Almost exactly as he'd looked that first night they'd met. He was crouching down and speaking softly. But given the quality of the architecture, sound traveled easily and Jean was able to hear him.

"Oh no, no," he said over and over. "I'm so sorry, my darling."

He was kneeling beside some flowers that he was trying to gently pick up. The crash Jean had heard must have been that: the vase with her newest flower arrangement must have fallen to the ground and shattered. Lucien was trying to rescue her flowers.

"I would say that this is a sign, isn't it? But no, of course it's not. If there were, You wouldn't be so ham-handed, would You? Me destroying the beauty she created?" he asked, walking from beside the altar to stand directly in front of it.

His words were directed at Christ on the cross hanging so majestically on the red curtain backdrop behind the baldachin.

"All the bloody years I wasted on You," he spat. "Like a foolish child believing in fairytales. I thought You gave me a sign. I was starving and half the bones in my body were broken and I begged for death. I thought death was the only comfort I could earn. But instead it was my mother. Masquerading as Your mother. Though it's not Christ I've got the problem with, is it? He was just a man, wasn't he? A man who tried to bring a bit more kindness into a cruel and unbending world."

Lucien turned and started pacing. Jean stood back in the shadows, hoping he would not see her. It was not right that she should watch and eavesdrop like this, but she could not bring herself to leave.

"What kind of Father abandons His children?" he shouted. "What kind of God allows suffering like that? Like _this_? Hmm? Do we deserve it? Do we _deserve_ to be brought to the brink of death only to be rescued and cursed to continue living in pain?"

He shook his head and pushed his hair back. It was coming out in all directions, as it had been that very morning when Jean had run her fingers through it. Curly and blonde and wild.

Lucien paused right in front of the altar table, placed his hands down flat on it, and leaned forward. Jean could not see is face, but from the tone of his voice she could hear him sneer, "What did I ever do to You? How did I offend You so brutally that You subject me to this? I was arrogant, I was oblivious, sometimes uncaring. I know that. I won't deny it. I've lived a far from perfect life. But wasn't the camp punishment enough? Wasn't losing my family in front of my eyes enough penance for my sins?" He pushed off the table and started shouting. "I have served you faithfully! I have led your flocks! Why have You tempted me with love and happiness that You have forbidden me to possess? Is it a test? Well, surely I've failed. Surely I would fail any test because of her."

His voice cracked on that last word, and Jean gasped quietly to herself, realized that he was talking about her. The love and happiness he was forbidden, the test he was failing, it was _her_.

He continued, much softer now. "I suppose none of it matters. You don't exist, do You? No, You're not going to answer me. You've never answered me. You're not going to do anything about this. What's the point of asking for guidance? You've never cared about me. Probably because You're not really there."

Lucien started to shake. He fell to his knees and let out a visceral sob. He was crying and pounding on the altar.

"How can I be tortured by You when You're not even real?!" he cried.

Jean could hold herself back no longer. She could not bear to see him suffer like this. She would never abandon him when he was in pain, not when she was there to witness it.

She ran up the aisle, not caring about the sound she made. His sobs drowned out the noise of her shoes. Jean fell to her knees beside him, taking him in her arms. He looked at her through his tears, bewildered by her presence. "Jean?" he croaked.

"Shh, I'm here, Lucien," she assured him. "Please, please don't lose faith."

He was already starting to settle, his breathing coming in gentler waves now. "I have no faith," he said coldly.

Jean did not like to hear that. "Up we get," she instructed, helping them both to their feet. As they stood there in front of the altar, she reached up to cup his bearded cheek in her hand and brush away a stray tear. "Don't lose hope, then," she amended, knowing it would do no good to argue about his faith.

Lucien took her face in both his hands in turn, holding her like the precious thing she knew he believed her to be. "My only hope is for you, Jean," he murmured softly.

Something inside Jean cracked in that moment. Something contained deep within her broke free. Was it the remnants of her own faith that had finally extricated itself from her desperate clutches? Was it the love she felt for this man screaming to be known? Was it her own sense of morality that had been shattered beyond recognition? She did not know. She would probably never know. But there, on the altar of St. Catherine's, Jean Beazley was irrevocably changed forever. Precisely why and how were unclear and always would be. But there it was: a new beginning to her very being.

Jean reached up toward him, standing so close and holding her face and looking at her with bloodshot eyes full of wild emotion. And she closed the distance between them with hardly another thought.

Their lips crashed together, messy and hungry, all teeth and tongues and gasping moans. And Jean did not stop it. She couldn't. She didn't want to.


	30. Chapter 30

**Author's Note: M-rating for this chapter**

**XXX**

Lucien kissed her with desperate abandon. Much more than their fateful kiss only a few days before. He had poured his heart out to God, begging for some sign or guidance on what to do about this all-consuming need he had for Jean, a need he was forbidden from even feeling. And she had appeared to him in that moment when he needed her the most. She was here, in his arms, kissing him with all she had. Her elegant hands anchored his face to hers, but his own hands could not remain still, tracing over her back, feeling her lithe form beneath the jacket she wore.

Jean was not idle, though. Her hands soon moved from the back of his neck to his shirt, fumbling over the buttons. He followed her lead, undoing the few fastenings of her jacket. They broke from their kiss to push their respective coverings off their shoulders. Lucien was surprised to see that she wore only a nightgown beneath her jacket. It was plain but pretty. White cotton with a blue ribbon trim that left her shoulders bare. He'd never seen her wear so little before. He was panting already from their heady kiss but now, seeing her like this, he could hardly breathe.

She did not pause, however, for him to admire her. After pushing the shirt off, she rucked up his singlet from where it was still tucked into his trousers and peeled it off over his head. Before he could toss it aside, Jean's hands were on his torso, caressing his muscles and following her fingers with her kisses. He whimpered her name and boldly fisted the loose fabric of her nightgown in his hands. Jean looked up at him, her eyes dark and full of desire in a way he'd never believed he would see outside his dreams. Her lovely lips twitched into a hint of a smile. Lucien pulled the nightgown up. Jean did not stop him.

After stepping out of her shoes and kicking them aside, Jean stood there before him, wearing nothing but her knickers, bare in all her glory. The dim light of the church cast shadows on the pale, beautiful skin of her body. Every curve, ever freckle, ever inch of her was exquisite. His breath caught in his throat as he marveled at her.

But she did not allow him to pause for long. She took a half step forward and pulled him back into another fiery kiss. Her fingers traced the map of scars on his back, making him shiver with the intimacy of it. She was the first woman to ever see or touch his scars. She was the only person he ever wanted to show them to. She was the only person he ever wanted at all.

He wrapped his arms around her and let his hands wander the expanse of her skin. She was hot and soft and delicate beneath his touch. Her waist was thin, her stomach flat, her hips elegant, her breasts soft, her bum firm. He wanted more than anything to be able to take the time to explore her, to learn every part of her. But then her hands traveled down his body and unbuckled his belt and suddenly there was no time for anything at all.

Lucien pulled away just so that he could grasp her hips and lift her up to sit on top of the altar. Her legs spread to welcome him as she smiled. He stepped between her thighs and rained ardent kisses down her neck. She gasped and moaned at his efforts. Every sound from her made him harder.

* * *

Jean felt unhinged, almost as though she had no control over herself and her actions. But she knew exactly what she was doing. She could not have stopped herself if she'd tried, though she had not interest in trying. She wanted him. Here and now, forever and always. Holding him in her arms, feeling his lips on her skin and his hands trace her body, it all felt so very _right_.

Lucien's mouth traveled from her neck to her chest, lingering to dip his tongue in the hollow of her throat. A low moan fell from her lips. One of his hands gripped hard on her thigh and the other massaged her breast roughly, deliciously. Her body tingled with want for him. His wet kisses found her other breast, and Jean dug her fingernails into his scalp to keep him right where he was.

"Yes, please," she begged, needing him to know how desperately she desired him, how much she enjoyed his every attention.

"Oh Jean," he groaned, moving his head to her other breast.

He hooked his thumbs into this waistband of her knickers and, though his lips were closed over her tightly furled nipple, she shifted her hips to pull the last barrier away from her body.

Lucien, however, was not as naked as she. Ignoring the cold of the marble alter beneath her bum, Jean leaned forward to go back to her task of ridding Lucien of his trousers. He allowed her to unzip the fronts and push everything off his hips. His erection was hard and hot and throbbing as her hand closed around the shaft. He gasped in surprise. His dark, wild eyes searched hers for a moment. His cock twitched in her hand. Slowly, Jean began to stroke and pump him, and he kissed her deeply.

Jean felt some sort of sound come from the back of her throat as his tongue tangled with hers. He took her wrist and pulled her hand off of him, and before she knew it, his fingers had found their way between her legs. He stroked her wet folds and dipped inside her body. She whispered his name against his lips, begging him again.

He did not tease or keep her in suspense too long. He lined himself up with her entrance and pressed himself inside her, slowly at first. Only the head of his cock filled her before he pulled out. Jean could hardly breathe as her heart threatened to thunder out of her chest. Her fingers clutched his massive shoulders, and she kissed him again. This time, he slammed his hips into hers, thrusting to the hilt inside her. Jean cried out at the sudden stretching fullness that felt so incredibly good, she thought she would die and go to heaven in that moment.

His pace was frenzied. It was fast and deep and hard, and it was exactly what she wanted and needed. Their coupling matched the mania within her head and her heart. Lucien pounded into her over and over and over. Jean felt the coil of tension deep in her belly as his cock dragged against her inner walls and his hips caused friction just where she needed it. She was close, so close. It was almost too much.

She threw her head back, gasping for air as her body trembled with her climax. Her eyes fluttered, and through her own lashes, she saw the sight of the dark wooden crucifix on that red silk backdrop. Such a sight should have served as a dire warning, a symbol of her own doom. For here she was, naked and profane on the altar, making love to the priest of this very church.

But Jean felt no fear. She couldn't. For she had never felt more alive or more loved or more free than she did in that one moment. Let her be damned. Let them both be damned. This moment was worth an eternity of hellfire.

Lucien's pace faltered as he jerked and came with a deep groan. When he stilled, Jean leaned forward against his body, holding him in her arms. She traced his scars again, liking the feel of them under her fingers. His arms hung loose around her. Both their bodies were bathed in sweat.

They remained that way for a little while to catch their breath. Eventually Lucien looked up at her. His face looked lighter than she'd ever seen it. As though all of his torment had left him. Perhaps it had. "Jean," he whispered.

She held his cheeks in her hands, softly caressing his beard. Her lips tingled at the memory of the scratch of that beard all over her face and neck. "I love you," she whispered back. It suddenly occurred to her that, although she had know the truth of such feelings for months, she had not said those words to him. He had said it to her, after they'd kissed in the chapel. Perhaps it was only fitting that she told him the same after the dramatic increase of their physical expressions.

Lucien's face lit up, and he leaned in to kiss her softly. It was only then that he pulled out of her body. She shivered at the loss of him, though it was surely for the best. Sitting on that marble was now quite uncomfortable. He noticed the way she shifted and helped her get down onto her feet. "Here we are," he murmured.

Jean took a moment to indulge once again by wrapping her arms around him and resting her cheek on his chest. She felt him return her embrace and rest his chin on the top of her head.

After another gentle moment, Lucien whispered, "Can you come stay the night with me?"

"I can't." She absolutely hated to say it, but it was true. She couldn't. But she felt Lucien stiffen in her arms, and she realized what he must have thought. She pulled back to look up at him. "Because I haven't got any clothes," she explained. "I can't leave your bed and go back home in just my nightgown in broad daylight."

He was smiling again at that. "Alright, I suppose that's a good reason."

She went up on her tiptoes to kiss him gently. "But maybe tomorrow? After Mass?"

Lucien looked confused. Tomorrow was Tuesday. "Mass?"

"Tomorrow is Christmas Eve," she reminded him. It would be a busy day with all the holiday services and events and the Nativity Play and all the other duties that Jean had already planned on helping him with. It would not be noticed if she brought a small holdall of her clothes along with the other items that would be needed. Besides, waking up on Christmas morning with Lucien beside her sounded like the best Christmas present she could imagine.

"A very merry Christmas for us," he said.

"Yes," she agreed with a light laugh.

It was time, then, for them to find their clothes and put themselves back together. Jean needed to get back home. She needed a bath and she needed to get some sleep.

Jean also made a mental note to come back early tomorrow so that she could clean the altar. The flower arrangement needed to be redone and the altar…well…

"You know," Lucien ventured, interrupting her thoughts as she found her shoes, "I think that in the greatest sense of irony, I have found that God must be real."

She was quite taken aback by that. "Oh?"

He stopped trying to do up the buttons of his shirt, leaving it open, and crossed back to her. "God must be real because He brought me you."

Jean's heart fluttered in her chest, and she smiled. And she thought that Lucien must be right.


	31. Chapter 31

**XXXI**

"We have to get up," Jean said softly. Her fingers were tangled in his hair, lightly scratching his scalp as his cheek rested on her bare belly. Her legs were wrapped around his body, her heels lazily stroking up and down his back. His hands were similarly occupied, gently exploring every inch of her he could reach.

"Must we?" he asked, whining slightly. They'd barely slept at all, merely dozing off for a little while between when they'd passed out making love after Midnight Mass the night before and when Jean had kissed him awake before dawn that morning. She'd whispered 'Merry Christmas' in his ear before taking his earlobe between her teeth and then he was lost to her.

But Jean was ever the practical one between them. "We both need to get cleaned up before Mass. And a bit of breakfast wouldn't go amiss either."

"Do you want to go to Mass this morning?"

"Not particularly," she replied, "but I probably should."

"You're welcome to stay here," he told her. He turned his head to press a soft kiss just above her navel. "Have a lie in. Relax. Keep the bed warm for me."

She chuckled. "I won't be staying in bed, but I think it might actually be better if I stay here. We're already seen coming and going together enough as it is. And there will be far too many people in church today that I don't want to talk to."

Lucien grinned at that. "You're much more antisocial than I'd imagined, Mrs. Beazley."

"Are you really so surprised that I don't want to share you?" she countered teasingly, taking his chin in her hand.

"I promise you won't have to share me any more than necessary," he told her. He pushed himself up and hovered over her naked body and leaned in to kiss her. Their lips moved together in a deliciously practiced way, now.

But before they could get too distracted by each other again, Jean turned her head aside. "Go get cleaned up," she insisted. She gave his bum a swat for good measure, making him laugh.

"Oh I do love you," he said happily. He kissed her one last time and forced himself to get up. He could feel her watching him as he walked down to the bathroom, not bothering to put anything on for the trip.

* * *

Jean stretched her back and her arms and her legs in Lucien's bed. The sheets were an absolute mess, both from being pushed aside and tangled as well as being soiled by various fluids from their lovemaking. That would be the first thing she needed to do after breakfast while he was in Church. She'd change the sheets and start the wash on this set.

Her body was exhausted and sore beyond belief, making every movement a protest by her muscles. She'd not had exercise like this in a very long time. Well, exercise was an odd way of putting it, really. But she forced herself up out of bed, knowing she needed to get a start on breakfast for Lucien before he had to go.

She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror standing in the corner of the bedroom. Jean was taken aback, not used to seeing herself like this. There were lovebites all over her neck and chest, one particularly dark one on the underside of her left breast. There was some red irritation on her stomach and even more on her inner thighs from Lucien's beard. She might have blushed at that if she weren't so thoroughly sated at the moment. Her legs were like jelly and her hair was an absolute mess and her lips were swollen from his kisses. But her eyes were bright and happy, and that was perhaps the very best thing to see.

But Jean had to turn away from admiring her own reflection—something she was not wont to do very often. She put her bra and knickers and the same blouse and skirt she'd worn yesterday before changing into something nicer for Mass. Her hair would have to wait until Lucien was finished in the bathroom. But she was sufficiently dressed to go into the kitchen and fix some eggs and toast for them.

As she started the kettle and got everything she needed from the pantry, Jean began to sing to herself. She often hummed or sang a little while she worked, but she usually resisted while in Lucien's kitchen. After all, he was often hungover or else just very tired when she came to cook breakfast for him. He'd be tired this morning too—they both were—but she was sure that their mutual joy would permit this little musical expression from her.

She was busy at the stove, still singing, when she heard him come up behind her. He wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed her neck. "I love to hear you sing," he whispered.

Jean was pleased to hear him say so. She turned her head to catch his lips and then went back to cooking and singing until she finished her song.

When she turned back to the table, she found Lucien fixing tea for them both. Jean plated the eggs and toast for them both. It was only once they'd both sat down that she realized he was already wearing his cassock and collar. A bit of the happiness inside her deflated slightly. She hadn't forgotten that he was a priest, of course. She was the one who had made them get up so that he could go conduct Christmas Mass. But seeing him dressed that way was different somehow. And there was a sudden wave of nausea that put her off her breakfast entirely. Jean just pushed the eggs around on her plate and nibbled pathetically on her toast.

Lucien, however, wasn't bothered at all. He scarfed down the food she made for him. Really, she couldn't blame him. He'd surely worked up quite a bit of an appetite during the night. They both had. Jean would surely be starving later once she got over this…whatever it was. She wouldn't call it shame or regret, because it wasn't that at all. She was happy about the steps they'd taken together. She knew better than anything that Lucien loved her and she loved him, and her spending the night in his bed left her feeling only happy and loved. She knew that without a shadow of a doubt. But now in the light of day with that collar around his neck and his hair coifed back in its usual respectable style, he was back to being Father Blake, not just her Lucien.

"Not hungry?" he asked, noticing the food still left on her plate.

"No, not really," she answered simply. "You can have my eggs if you want them."

He took her plate without question and scraped the eggs onto his own. She took another bite of toast and he shoveled the food into his mouth. Jean had the sudden memory of her boy Jack at about thirteen years old, growing like a weed and practically eating her out of house and home. Jack would ask her if he could finish her meals sometimes if she didn't eat them fast enough. That was a nice memory. She wondered what Jack was doing this Christmas day.

Though Lucien had eaten like a madman, he was kind enough to help her with the dishes, as usual. And working together, they were finished soon enough.

"I'd better go," he said regretfully. He leaned in to kiss her, which she gladly accepted. "You'll be here when I get back?" he asked. There was a note of hopefulness in his voice that she quite liked.

Jean took her chin in her hand again, her thumb rubbing over his beard. "I'll be here," she promised. "I'll do a bit of washing and such while you're gone. And do remember that people will want to talk to you, so don't hurry to escape right after Mass is finished."

"Of course," he replied.

He kissed her once more and took his leave. It did not really enter her mind that it should be strange, her staying in his home while he left to do his work, her lightly nagging him as she had. Perhaps it should have been odd, as she was not his wife and could never be, yet she was acting very much as a wife.

Jean started to feel a little lightheaded and sat back down at the kitchen table for a moment. Her tea had gone cold, but she didn't mind taking small sips of it. She closed her eyes and thought for the first time what it could be like to be his wife. If he wasn't a priest. If they were allowed to be in love and build a life together like anyone else. Would he return to being a doctor? Would she take a job as a housekeeper or maid somewhere else to help provide for them both? Her inheritance from his father would not support the both of them, particularly not if they had to move. And they would obviously have to move.

She shook her head. She was getting much too far ahead of herself. Jean loved her little house, designed and decorated all on her own and exactly how she wanted it. She would not leave it for anything. Lucien was a priest and would remain so forever, for Jean would not allow him to abandon his duties, and if it really came down to it, Lucien would probably balk at the idea of leaving the Church. No matter what he'd said about wanting to leave so they could be together, she knew he was not a man who could stand to be lost. He needed a purpose and a sense of security. The Church gave him that. She'd not be the reason it was all taken away from him.

After a moment, she felt much better. Time to get on with the cleaning. Because what would come of their future did not matter here and now. The both of them had suffered for so long, quiet and desperate and lonely in their own ways. They'd been granted this small happiness together for however long they could hold onto it. Jean would not squander it by succumbing to worries prematurely.


	32. Chapter 32

**XXXII**

For the first time in longer than she could remember, Jean woke up late. How late, she could hardly say. But the sun was high in the sky. And upon realizing that she had overslept, she had a moment of panic before falling back onto the pillows of her bed and passing out again.

It was much later—though how much later she had absolutely no idea—she was jolted awake by a very familiar feeling in her stomach. She didn't look at the clock, she didn't pay any mind to anything. Jean threw the covers off of her and hurled herself into the bathroom.

The retching constricted her stomach muscles in the most agonizing way. Her head was throbbing and her eyes watered and her nose ran and her throat burned. And when the vomiting stopped long enough for her to catch her breath, Jean slid down the side of the toilet and let the cold tile floor soothe her hot, sweaty skin. She was panting to breathe and eventually lost consciousness again.

* * *

Lucien felt absolutely sick to his stomach. It was the first ordinary day after Christmas. Well, sort of. It was Boxing Day, which was not a religious holiday, thank goodness, so he did not need to worry about Mass. But it as still a holiday, so his parishioners were with their families. He and Jean had spent Christmas Eve and Christmas Day together, and Christ he'd never been so happy in all his life.

But she had gone home in the afternoon on Christmas, needing to attend to things. She had kissed him and smiled before she left, and he'd hated to see her go, but it had been quite necessary, he knew. Everything between them was still so new and incredibly inappropriate and forbidden. If he had any sense at all, he'd listen when she'd told him that they couldn't do this. He'd have tried harder to resist the clamoring of his heart whenever she was near. The way they'd fallen together in the church…and after…and again…it wasn't an acceptable way for an upstanding woman like Mrs. Beazley or a priest such as himself to behave. But the heart wants what the heart wants. And if he had not spent so much time getting to know her and sharing himself with her before he'd even touched her skin, he might think it wasn't just his heart that wanted her. Really, all of him wanted her. Craved her at every moment. But it was not just lust, though he felt that. This was love, truer and deeper than he had ever imagined. And Lucien could not bear to ever let that go.

Today, though, Lucien had expected Jean to arrive at nine as she always did, to make him breakfast and drink her tea with him. He'd hoped he could take her in his arms and kiss her for a while before she inevitably turned them to more practical pursuits. While he'd love nothing more than to take her to bed and keep her there all day, he knew that she wouldn't allow that. There was work to be done, things to clean up in the church and her garden behind the rectory surely needed attending.

Only Jean had not arrived in the morning. He thought that perhaps she was just running a bit late, though such a thing was unheard of from her so far. But ten o'clock passed. And eleven o'clock passed. And Lucien began to worry.

He paced back and forth by the front window, looking up with his heart racing at every little movement. But it was just the wind in the willow tree or a bird flying by. It wasn't Jean. She wasn't coming.

Was it because it was Boxing Day? Was she busy with something else? Neighbors or family keeping her occupied? She hadn't told him she wouldn't be coming over. But she hadn't said that she would either. He tried to remember what she'd said when leaving the day before. She'd perhaps seemed a bit off, but Lucien had assumed she was just tired. After all, neither of them had slept much, busy instead with much more pleasurable pursuits.

Lucien felt the anxiety bubble up into panic. Did she regret their dalliances? Was she avoiding him now? Had she decided not to come in order to punish him? Or was she keeping herself apart from him to prevent temptation? He didn't know. He needed to know.

In a flash, he began to search through the small house for the parish directory that got printed each year. Though Lucien being his usual unorganized self, could not seem to find anything. He and Jean had thrown away so much junk during her first week working for him that he didn't know what he even had anymore. The only directory he could find was from four years ago. And, of course, the directory was released in January each year. Jean hadn't lived here last January. She wouldn't have been in the directory anyway.

He nearly threw the directory away, knowing it would be no use to him since he did not know her phone number and could not get it. But then he remembered one pertinent fact. She lived next door to the Collins family. And they'd lived here for years and years. Lucien dug picked up the directory again to find the Collins' address.

Without giving it another thought, Lucien got himself dressed and began to walk through town. He knew where the various streets in town were. He did not go out exploring all that much, but he did occasionally visit the sick and bereaved in their homes, so he knew his way around. It didn't take him long to get to the street where the he knew Jean lived. The trouble, however, was figuring out which house was hers. The Collins' lived in the middle of the street. Would Jean be their neighbor to the left or to the right?

Thankfully, he had been granted a reprieve. He located the address for the Collins family and saw Mr. Smith mowing the lawn of the house to the left. So Jean must be to the right.

As he approached up the front walk, he realized that this must be her house. There were lovely flowers planted in pots on the porch. The grass was neat and everything looked so pleasant and tidy. It felt like her.

Steeling himself for the worst, he knocked on the door.

* * *

Jean was jolted awake by a sharp banging. She came to realize she was lying on the floor of her bathroom and drooling from her open mouth. And she felt absolutely terrible.

The banging occurred again, and she recognized it as the sound of someone knocking on her door. "Mrs. Beazley?" someone called. It was a man's voice. That was about all she could decipher through her hazy mind.

She hauled herself off the floor, groaning and whimpering through it all, and fetched her pink dressing gown to cover herself. It was sometime in the afternoon and she was still in her nightclothes.

By the time she hobbled down the hall, she was starting to feel nauseous again. Whoever was looking for her would just have to go away, lest she vomit all over him. But when she opened the door, the most welcome sight greeted her. "Lucien!" she realized in surprise.

He hesitated, looking her up and down. "Mrs. Beazley," he replied insistently.

She realized what she'd done. And how he was dressed, in his cassock and collar. He was standing on her front step. "Come…come in, Father Blake" she said, this time addressing him properly and feeling utterly bewildered over what was possibly going on.

Jean closed the door behind him. Dimly, she wondered if anyone had seen him. And why he was at her house, of all places.

"Is everything alright?" she asked, turning back toward him. She wrapped her robe around her tighter, fighting off a chill.

"I came to ask you the same thing. I got worried when you didn't come over," he said. The look on his face was one of confusion that she surely matched.

And then it dawned on her. With a gasp, she hurried to the sitting room to look at the clock on the mantlepiece. It was nearly one in the afternoon! "Oh Lucien, I'm so sorry! I had no idea what time it was. I should have called!"

"Called to say what, Jean? Why didn't you come? What's going on?" he asked her worriedly.

It took her that long to realize what he must have thought, after the time they'd spent together for her not to turn up as usual. "I think I've got the flu," she explained.

Lucien's face changed immediately. "Oh my darling, I'm so sorry!" He did not hesitate to take two steps toward her and wrap her in his embrace.

Immediately, Jean felt better. The nausea was still roiling in her stomach and she felt sweaty and chilled, but being in his arms was so soothing. She nuzzled against his chest and closed her eyes, breathing in the very distinct scent of him with that slight note of spiced aftershave he wore.

"I'm glad I came over then, if you're not feeling well," he murmured. "Would you mind if I did a short examination, just to check you over?"

Jean pulled away and looked up at him warily. "I don't think that's a good idea with the way I'm feeling."

He chuckled. "No, I mean an actual examination, Jean. I am a doctor, remember? I can run home and get my medical bag and be back before you know it."

She had forgotten that he was a doctor. His suggestion made much more sense now. "But you probably shouldn't be seen going to and from my house, Lucien." She absolutely hated to say it, but it was true. Before, there had been nothing much to convict them of impropriety, certainly nothing to damn them. But now…well, they'd more than crossed the line now. Galloped over it, in fact.

"You're ill, and I have been known to visit and pray with the sick. It isn't so unusual that I should come visit you when you're not feeling well. Particularly because you live alone. It wouldn't be right for me to leave you like this."

Jean knew she should tell him no and be the voice of reason. But she just could not bring herself to it right now. She wanted to go back to bed and curl up in his arms and let him sing her to sleep while stroking her hair. And if he, with his medical training, could do anything else to help her, that would be all for the better. Jean knew it was just the flu, though she herself had not been sick in a very long time. She'd nursed her boys through enough of this to know it wasn't much to be worried about. Still, being on her own was difficult. And she had a man who loved her who wanted to be with her in her rather disgusting weakness. Jean could not bear to turn him away.

She nodded and he kissed her forehead. "Oh dear, you've got a fever, my darling. Go right back to bed. I'll go get my things and be back before you know it, if you'll trust me to come right in through the front door?"

"Yes, that's fine. I don't ever lock it when I'm home during the day, just before bed."

He cupped her cheek gently and pushed her hair off her face. "I'll be sure to lock it before bed, then."

Jean took that to mean that he would be staying over, which was certainly a bad idea, but her head was just too heavy for her neck and her eyes were protesting being open like this anymore. In a minute, she'd not be able to remain upright, let alone think or speak. And so, she allowed Lucien to help her down the hall to her bedroom and tuck her into bed.


	33. Chapter 33

**XXXIII**

When Lucien returned to Jean's home, he found her in the bathroom vomiting into the toilet. He put his bag aside and kneeled down beside her. He held her hair back from her face and soothingly rubbed her back. When she finally finished heaving, she was gasping for air. Her face was covered in tears and spittle and snot. Not the most attractive thing in the world, but certainly one of the more human things. He tore off some toilet roll for her to clean herself up.

"Thank you," she moaned. "I'm sorry for all of this."

"Nothing to apologize for, Jean," he assured her.

She slumped against his chest, and he did not hesitate holding her close. He pressed another kiss to her forehead. She was clammy but did not seem as feverish as she had before. He really did need to do a proper examination of her and take her temperature by thermometer and not just through kisses. Though the latter felt much nicer.

"Come along, darling, let's get you back to bed. I'm going to get you some water. Can't have you getting dehydrated on top of everything else," he said.

Jean just moaned in a rather pathetic manner. He felt for her, he really did. It's certainly no fun at all being sick. He helped her to her feet, though Jean seemed very unsteady. So, he just picked her up and carried her back to bed. He was more than capable of it, and she was in no state to be able to walk. She was so sick that she did not even make any sort of protest against being carried like that.

He put her back in her bed and tucked her in. "Stay here. I'll be right back," he said. She did not reply beyond another grumbling moan.

Lucien walked down the hall to locate the kitchen. The cabinets were painted a deep forest green. A very attractive effect. He wondered if the house had come that way or if Jean had chosen the color. He found a glass and filled it with cold water for her. He also wet a towel to hopefully bring her temperature down more.

On his way back to her room, he noticed the sitting room with very elegant and feminine furniture. The walls were a pretty blue. And her bedroom, he'd noticed, was a pale pink. All of it was extremely lovely and girlish which made him think that Jean had perhaps designed it all herself. He knew that this was the first house that had ever been hers alone, and after years living in his father's house, getting to have a space that was all her own must have been quite freeing. He wondered briefly which room in the old Blake house had been hers and if she'd decorated it for herself. The bedroom furniture she had now seemed vaguely familiar; perhaps she'd taken it with her from Ballarat.

"Jean, I'm going to look you over now, if that's alright," he said upon returning to her room.

"Alright," she agreed. She struggled to sit up but managed it on her own.

Lucien went about listening to her heart and lungs to rule out pneumonia—thankfully her chest sounds were clear. He took her temperature and found she still had a slight fever, as he'd thought. Her heartrate and blood pressure were fine. All in all, it was clear that she did have a mild case of influenza. "Jean, when did you first start feeling sick?" he asked.

"I think yesterday, actually. I was a little nauseous at breakfast after we got up. And then I think the fever started sometime in the night. I was entirely out of it all morning," she responded.

He nodded. That all made sense. "I am pleased to report that you'll live. And it seems like it might be out of your system in another twenty-four hours or so. But I'd like to try to help your fever break, and I want to get some nutrients in you, if we can. So lets keep you sitting up and I'd like you to slowly drink down this water and keep the cold towel on the back of your neck."

"On my neck? I always put a cold compress on my boys' foreheads."

"That works just as well, but its hard to keep something on your forehead when you're upright," he pointed out. He helped situate her properly, and he pressed a soft kiss to her cheek. "I'm going to find something gentle for you to eat."

She nodded in thanks. "The breadbox on the countertop is full. I don't know if I could manage much more at the moment."

"Alright. I'll be back in a moment."

* * *

Jean stayed in her bed, allowing Lucien to take care of her. The water he gave her to drink was a very welcome comfort. She could feel the cold go down her throat. The cold towel on her neck certainly helped as well. She wasn't feeling as sweaty and awful as she'd been before. She probably could manage a bit of toast.

She put the glass, now half-empty, on the nightstand. In spite of everything, Jean smiled. Lucien must have been a brilliant doctor. But she wondered how long he'd actually practiced medicine if he'd joined the army before the war and joined the priesthood after the war. She could imagine that old Doctor Blake had been so proud when his only child had gone to medical school and become a doctor as well. That might have been an interesting turn, if Lucien had stayed a doctor. He and his father might not have had such a dire falling out. Would he have come to Ballarat when his father was sick? Would Jean have met him under different circumstances? And if so, would they have still fallen in love?

It was silly to think of 'what ifs,' she knew, but it was interesting to think of nonetheless. And though she still could not believe she had been foolish enough to fall in love with a priest, she had a feeling that she might have fallen in love with Lucien no matter what he was. He was still himself, regardless of his profession. He was kind and gentle and brilliant and fiercely interested in justice. Yes, he was a bit arrogant and selfish at times, and he likely would have had fits of drunkenness and depression and anger no matter what he'd done after the war, what with all he'd experienced with his family and in that camp. Yes, Jean was rather sure she'd have fallen in love with him no matter what.

Lucien returned with a plate of toast for her. "What are you smiling about?" he asked, noticing the expression on her face.

"Love, actually."

A smile spread over his own dear face. "Oh?"

"Yes, I was just thinking of how interesting it is that we should have fallen in love as we have, but I can't really imagine I wouldn't have fallen in love with you after having met you and spent time with you no matter what," she told him.

He sat on the edge of her bed beside where her legs lay in front of her. He put the toast on her lap and reached out to stroke her cheek. "I think you're probably right. I know I couldn't help falling in love with you. I know we both tried not to. But some things are somehow inevitable."

Jean patted the vacant side of her bed. "Come sit with me," she requested.

Lucien stood and crossed to the other side. He took off his shoes and thankfully rid himself of the cassock and collar before coming to sit on the bed beside her. She preferred it that way. He was just her Lucien this way, in his shirt and trousers and looking like the man she adored.

"Thank you for coming to take care of me," she murmured, resting her head on his shoulder.

He shifted so he could wrap his arms around her. He kissed her forehead again. "I think your temperature's going done. Try to eat some toast and be sure to drink down all that water," he advised.

"Yes, doctor."

That remark earned a gentle chuckle from him. "No one else I'd rather take care of," he assured her.

"But don't let me keep you if you have duties to attend to."

"No," he assured her, "it's Boxing Day and I'm not expected anywhere at all. Regular hours and classes and things other than Sunday Mass don't start up again until after the new year."

"So I get you all to myself till then?"

"Always, my darling," he vowed.

* * *

Lucien knew he may have said too much, but he could not help himself. He loved her with all his heart and he wanted her to know. He would give anything to be with her. How exactly they could manage that, he wasn't quite sure. But he'd find a way. Together, they'd find a way. He could not give her up, that much he knew. Love was difficult sometimes. It was not always meant to be for two people who loved each other to be together. It took work and sacrifice to try and make a life together. Sometimes it was against all odds that two people could be happy.

"You're thinking rather loudly," Jean commented.

"I was thinking about my parents," he told her.

Jean hummed softly. "I was just thinking about your father, actually."

"Were you?"

"Yes, just about what it might have been like to know you when I lived in his house."

That was an interesting thought. One he'd not had before. Well, he could think of things that might have been another time. "Dad didn't tell you much about my mother, did he?"

"Not much, no. Any mention of her was met with a very deep sadness. I think he grieved for her till the day he died. When he did speak of her, it was with a reverence that I couldn't quite imagine."

"No? Did you not remember your husband with that reverence?"

Jean fell quiet for a moment. "I don't think I ever thought of it like that. The way your father felt for your mother and the way I felt for my Christopher, I never really identified with him on that. They were married just slightly longer than me and Christopher, but I knew him all my life. We fell in love gradually, growing up together. I don't think it was the same with your parents."

"No, not at all," Lucien replied. "They met in Paris and he whisked her back to Australia to be married. And for most of my life, I never really understood their relationship. Even as a child, I could see that they were in love. I just…I don't think I could ever figure out why. But I think I understand it now."

"You do?"

Lucien pulled her slightly tighter in his arms. "They were just so very different. She was always happy, always so full of life and music and art. A free spirit. Full of deep emotion. And Dad was never like that, even when she was alive. Cold and strict, for the most part. But I think sometimes two people can be so radically different yet meet their match in their very souls."

"That's a beautiful way to think of it."

"There was a part of Thomas Blake's soul, maybe the part of him that was a piano virtuoso and wanted to travel to the artistic heart of Paris, met an artist there who had something inside her, that part that believed so strongly in the teachings of the church and kept our house in pristine order, fell in love with that uptight Australian doctor. And for however a brief time, they were each other's whole lives."

Jean smiled, nuzzling against him. "I think you're probably right."

"I never understood that before now. Because I think I've found the match for my soul in you, Jean."

"Yes," she murmured softly. "You're definitely right."

It was then that Lucien realized that Jean had fallen back to sleep. He gently moved things off of her and helped her get settled back into bed.


	34. Chapter 34

**A/N: M-Rating**

**XXXIV**

When Jean woke again, it was very dark. Her head hurt a bit and she was quite hungry. But other than that, she felt perfectly well for the first time since Christmas.

"Jean?"

She reached over to turn on the bedside lamp. Lucien was sitting in the chair of her vanity, watching over her. "What time is it?" she asked.

"Very late," he replied. "But your fever broke a few hours ago. How are you feeling?"

"All better, I think. I could use that water and toast now, though."

He stood up. "Let me get you some fresh," he offered.

"No, this is fine," she insisted. She gulped down the rest of the water in the glass, after which Lucien did insist on going to get her more. While he was gone, she wolfed down those three slices of toast left on the plate. Yes, she was feeling much better.

"Better?" he asked, giving her the fresh water and coming to sit beside her on the edge of the bed again.

She drank down the water quickly and handed him back the empty glass. "Yes. Although I can tell I sweated my way through that fever, goodness," she said, feeling extremely unpleasant with the dried sweat sticking her pyjamas to her skin.

"Why don't you go take a bath, and I'll change the sheets for you. I assume you've got an extra set?" he offered.

It was extremely sweet of him, how he wanted to help take care of her. It was a nice change of pace, after the months she'd spent taking care of him. But now that she was feeling very much herself again, Jean did not need him to do things for her. "Why don't we change the sheets together and then you can join me in the bath?" she countered.

The grin on his face was priceless. Oh how she loved him!

They made quick work of the bed between the two of them. It would be wonderful to slip into clean sheets later…together. Though Jean did have a feeling that if she still felt awake and energized like this after their bath, they'd probably be dirtying up these sheets in no time.

* * *

Lucien lay in the bath with Jean between his legs, her back resting against his chest. He wanted to be gentle with her, to let her relax after her illness. Nothing would be worse to his mind than getting himself excited only to be let down and left feeling guilty for pushing her too far. And so he just held her in his arms, content to be close to her. The intimacy of being naked in the bath together with the bright light of the bathroom was quite nice, actually. It was dark outside and the world was still. After all, it was the middle of the night. Everything felt quiet and soft, and being in the warm water with Jean was more than he could have ever dreamed.

But then Jean shifted slightly in his embrace. Her bum brushed up against his flaccid cock, sending a jolt right through him. She must have known what she was doing because she did it again and a small hum and low giggle came out of her.

"You minx!" he laughed.

She turned her head to press a kiss to his jaw. "I'm just glad I'm feeling better. And I don't think I ever expected to get to have you in the bath with me. I think we're lucky for the opportunity."

He gave a growl in response. "Very lucky." With that, his hands moved from where they had rested on her belly. One travelled up to massage one of her breasts and the other travelled down to seek between her legs.

Jean sighed in appreciation, letting her head fall back against his shoulder as she enjoyed his ministrations. Lucien used that strategic angle to kiss up and down her neck.

As he continued on, she let out little gasps and moans. With every sound, he sucked harder on her pale, beautiful neck. With every twitch of her hips, he increased the friction of his thumb and the speed of his fingers thrusting and curling inside her. And with every brush of her bum against his hardening length, he squeezed her breast just a bit rougher.

On and on they went like this. He delighted in every reaction she had. The idea that the stern, buttoned up woman who had scolded him as a drunkard and sat as a pious parishioner in his Mass could be so wanton and beautiful like this was the greatest gift he could imagine. And that he, lonely and sad and broken failure of a priest that he was, could be the one to bring out this glory in her? It was unthinkable. And yet perfectly correct. Nothing in the world could be more right than this, than he and Jean exploring these fleshly delights together.

At last, she came hard against his hand, crying out his name from the back of her throat and arching her back as the pleasure pulsed through her body. The water in the bath had slopped off the side, but it thankfully wouldn't bother the pristine white tiled floors.

Jean fell back, boneless and sated. But Lucien was not nearly finished with her yet. As carefully as he could, he moved her off him so he could stand up. The bathmat was sopping wet but still provided him just enough traction on the floors. And then with very little effort indeed, Lucien scooped Jean up from the bath and carried her into the bedroom, dripping water all the way.

* * *

She was flying. Her body was heavy but weightless and she was flying. She felt the bulk of Lucien's strong, muscular arms. There was a chill in the air from their wet bodies. And when he set her down on the clean bedsheets, getting everything as wet as they were, she could not care in the least.

Jean blinked her eyes open and grinned up at him. He stood there with water droplets glistening all over the ridges of his hard body, sparkling in the dim light from her bedside lamp. For a man who had lived and been hurt as much Lucien had, he was still the very picture of an Adonis. Her mighty Hercules, her triumphant Achilles. She reached her arms out to him, beckoning him into her loving embrace.

Lucien smiled and climbed onto the bed on top of her. Their wet skin slid seductively as he kissed her deeply. The taste of his tongue was the heady drug habit she never wanted to shake. She felt, in times like this, when they were in the midst of making love, that she wanted for nothing when he was with her like this. The weight of his body pressing her into the mattress and the power of his hips cradled between her thighs, this was the rightest thing in all the world. Surely it must be.

He slipped inside her without any effort at all. Her body was wet and ready for him, inside and out. "God, Lucien!" she moaned, feeling him fill her and stretch her with every thick inch he possessed.

His pace began slowly, dragging his cock against her inner walls. Jean dug her fingers into his broad shoulders. Lucien's hot breath against her neck made her shiver with want.

"Harder," she begged, "Please!"

Lucien was never one to deny her, not when they were in bed together. He thrust harder and faster, pounding into her with a frenzied abandon. He built her up and up and up and then…

She was flying again. She may have screamed out his name, she did not know. Lucien was unrelenting until at last, he too tumbled over the edge of the abyss with her. He collapsed on top of her, unable to hold himself up any longer. Jean's legs fell from where they'd been wrapped around his waist. The both of them lay there, panting with hearts thundering in their chests.

When he was able, Lucien rolled over onto his back. Jean was bereft from the loss of him inside her body, but of course they could not remain entangled like that forever. He reached out to her, not letting the connection between them be severed. She laced her fingers with his. She did not have the strength to do anything else just yet.

"I've never fully understood the sacrament before," he said, his voice still breathless.

"What do you mean?" Jean turned her head to look at him, for it was all she could manage just then. Her body was still humming as the pleasure of her climax slowly drifted away.

He turned as she did and smiled. "Being inside you is more blessing than anything else I've ever experienced in all my life. I feel like God himself."

"Lucien, that's blasphemy," she chided, laughing anyway. Nothing could make her cross right now.

His expression turned serious. He rolled over onto his front so he could face her properly. "Everything about me is blasphemy, Jean. You and I, we are the most sacred and the most profane thing there's ever been."

She searched his eyes, seeing the clear, bright blue staring at her without a hint of jest or irony. "You say things like that and I somehow believe you. Why is that?"

He smiled softly. "Maybe it's because you love me."

"Mmm," she hummed in agreement. She lifted her head just enough to kiss him gently. "That must be it. I do love you."

* * *

Jean and Lucien did not sleep much that night. Once they cleaned themselves up and tidied the bathroom and got into bed, it was nearly morning. And Lucien needed to get back to the rectory and make sure things at St. Catherine's were all in order. He doubted anyone needed him, but this had been the first night in memory that he had spent away from his church, and though it had been for the best reason he could contemplate, he did not much like being away so long.

He got up when the sun was just starting to properly find its home in the sky, just after nine. Jean was still dozing beautifully beside him, but she half-woke when he had to take his arms away from her body.

"Shall I make breakfast?" she asked sleepily. When she shifted, he could see the red and purple lovebites he'd left all over her pale neck. He smiled proudly at his handiwork.

"No, love, you stay in bed. Stay home and rest today. We can get back to normal tomorrow, alright?" he whispered, kissing her cheek. After all, she'd need a day for those marks to fade a bit.

Jean yawned and nodded and rolled over to go back to sleep.

Lucien could not help watching her for just a moment. She was so beautiful, his Jean. And she was his now. Well and truly his. Heart and body and soul, he knew. She wouldn't have allowed these things between them to happen if that weren't so. And it was just as well, as every part of him belonged to her, too.

He dressed quickly and quietly, kissing her one last time before slipping out of the room with his medical bag packed in his hand. Before he left, Lucien wrote a note on the pad by the phone in the kitchen, reminding Jean to stay home and he would see her tomorrow and to call him if she needed anything. He left his phone number and an X at the bottom of the note.

It was already warm outside when he walked out of Jean's front door. He closed the door gently behind him, hoping it would not wake her. He took a deep breath of the beautiful fresh summer air and he smiled.

"Good morning, Father Blake!"

Lucien turned at the sound of his name and smiled at the owner of that voice. "Good morning, Joseph," he said, greeting the Collins boy.

Little Joseph came over to the picket fence separating the Collins' front yard from Jean's. "What are you doing at Mrs. Beazley's house?" he asked curiously.

"Mrs. Beazley was sick with the flu. And since she lives by herself, I came over yesterday to help take care of her."

"What did you do?"

"I sat with her to keep her company and got water for her when she was thirsty, and we prayed together." In a way, that was an outright lie. Lucien did try not to lie when he didn't absolutely have to. But really, making love to Jean was a benediction all its own. Nowadays, it was Lucien's preferred form of prayer.

"Is she feeling better now?" Joseph asked with concern.

Lucien nodded. "Much better. She's going to rest at home for today, but I'm sure she'll be right as rain tomorrow."

"Do you think she would like it if I made a get-well card for her?"

"You know, Joseph, I think she'd love that," Lucien told the boy. It absolutely warmed his heart the way the children loved Jean. And he knew that the Collins family had been such good friends to Jean since she had moved here. That was good. He wanted that for her. Friends and a community. Good and happy lives were made of such things.

"I'll have Maggie help me. She's good at drawing," Joseph said excitedly.

"That's a wonderful idea," Lucien encouraged. "Now, I've got to go back to St. Catherine's now, but I'll see you when catechism starts back up next week."

"Bye Father Blake!"

Lucien waved to Joseph and set off down the road back to the church. He felt happy. He felt good. But there was something in the back of his mind, a little voice he was trying his best to tamp down that warned that something might be coming.


	35. Chapter 35

**XXXV**

Many people found routine to be boring. It was safe, it was predictable, and it was unsurprising. That did not suit some people, leaving them feel as though something in life was lacking. Jean Beazley, however, appreciated a routine. There was security in knowing what to expect from her day, in being able to plan for what she wanted and needed around a set of certainties. Too often in her life had surprises interrupted a comforting routine, and she had come to appreciate the monotony that might have left others searching.

She and Lucien certainly had a routine. In the weeks since Christmas and her quick bout of flu, they had found a way to live a life together these last two monts. Or rather, as together as they could manage to be under the circumstances.

Jean came over to his each morning at nine as always to start the day and make breakfast and have her tea. They'd do the dishes together and steal kisses along the way. More then once, Lucien had bent her over the kitchen counter and taken her right there, adding a truly exciting and immensely pleasurable break in the ordinary routine. But that was not an everyday occurrence by any means.

They would work in the garden together, or she would come to St. Catherine's to help tidy the church or his office there. He would do his tasks, listening to Confession and training his altar boys, conducting funerals and weddings and baptisms when the occasion called for them. She would help him write his homily for Mass, though she did not always attend. They'd teach catechism classes together in the afternoons twice a week, just as they had before. All of that was just as it had been before this seismic shift in their relationship. It was important to them both that the good things from the time before be held onto. Now, though there, was so much more they could share.

Jean took to making dinner for Lucien most evenings. She also took to spending the night in his bed rather frequently. Not every night, of course. She had things that needed to be done in her own home, laundry and tending to her own garden and various other chores. But she had brought a small selection of her clothes to his so that she could spend the night on occasion and not be left embarrassingly without anything to wear the next day or having to risk the danger of being seen coming and going from the rectory at odd hours of the late night or early morning.

All in all, it was a good routine. She liked it. She understood it. She knew where the lines were drawn between them still. And something like this, while certainly not something either of them could be particularly proud of, was something that could be sustainable. Lucien did his duties and remained focused and committed to his parish. Jean could be there to help him along the way, just as she'd been hired to do. Now, though, they could also be in love and happy together, even if they were the only ones who could know.

Sometimes, late at night, her mind would wander. She would think about what they were doing, what had led her to be a lonely widow in the bed of the parish priest. She would watch him sleeping peacefully beside her. The rise and fall of his broad chest, the small twitches of the burly muscles in his arms and shoulders and neck, the gentle part of his soft lips not quite hidden by his beard. The wrinkles on his face and the gray sprinkled in his hair were evidence of his age, certainly, but when he slept, he looked so soft. So much younger than when the weariness of his life showed itself. In truth, she loved everything about him, even the parts that she did not particularly like. She had grown to accept those parts of him and love him anyway. It felt inevitable, looking back. She had almost no choice in the matter. She loved him almost without her own consent. By the time she had come around to the idea, it was already done.

But what of that love? That she loved him and he loved her, those facts were unquestioned between them. The question that did remain, however, was what to do about it. Would they remain like this forever, trapped in this routine and in these secrets they held? It was living in far more sin than Jean had ever though she'd be comfortable with. Though her damnation did not bother her at all anymore. It had never really bothered her to begin with. Lucien had told her that he'd not believed in God in a very long time. Maybe she hadn't either. Her prayers and her presence in Mass had always been a habit of her life. But did she actually believe? Did she really think that God could hear her prayers? And, perhaps it was more interesting to consider if it even mattered. If Lucien was right, if there was no God, what did it change? The Church, as an institution, was inexorable. Truth did not factor in much to Catholicism. The canon of Church doctrine was based on faith and acceptance. Personal belief was somewhat secondary to going through the motions of the various sacramental rituals. And the truth, the provable fact of God, that was hardly considered at all.

She rolled over and sighed, trying to get comfortable in bed. These questions had kept her up before, and she knew she would never have answers to them. Perhaps it did not matter what she believed or what the truth was. Perhaps all that mattered was that she and Lucien, through all the sadness and hardship they'd both faced, had found the love and comfort and happiness in each other. Perhaps that was the only truth worth believing in anymore.

* * *

Lucien felt Jean shift in bed beside him, and he was jostled out of a light sleep. She had a tendency to toss and turn. Such traits used to be his alone, his nightmares keeping him up or the alcohol making him sick and uncomfortable until he passed out. But he his nightmares had not bothered him much recently. He slept better having Jean beside him, and falling asleep after sex instead of after a bottle of whiskey was immeasurably more pleasurable. The dreams, when they did come to torment him, were less violent than they'd been in the past. He did not wake up screaming and sweating and shaking. Instead, he only jolted slightly out of whatever the dream had been, and he was able to coax himself back to sleep without much worry.

What did worry him, though, was what had become of Jean and himself. They were in love and they were happy, and Lucien had never dreamed that those two things could ever happen to him ever again in his life. He treasured this time with her, this life they were building.

But that life was in secret. That life required sneaking around and hiding and even lying at times. He wished that they could be an ordinary couple, that he could hold her hand walking down the street, that he could buy her gifts and take her out to the cinema or to an elegant dinner. None of that was possible while he remained in his position.

They hadn't discussed it at all since he'd offered to leave the Church to be with her, back before Christmas. In the few months that had passed since, it had not been brought up again. He did not now if he should. Surely that was what she wanted, to be able to be with him proudly and in the open, for him to marry her and be together properly? It was what he wanted. He wanted it more than anything.

Unfortunately, it wasn't that simple. Jean had brought it up to him when he'd offered the first time, that he was needed here. And it was true, he was a good priest and he was a comfort to his parishioners. Yes, another priest could do the job just as well, if not better, but the progressive ideals he tried to espouse through his teachings were not commonly held amongst the clergy. That was important, he knew. Promoting kindness and tolerance and understanding with the churchgoers was important. And though it might have been hubris to say, Lucien knew he was better at that than anyone else could be.

And what if he did leave? It would be no secret to anyone why he left. If he suddenly left the Church and moved into Jean's house and married her? She would be vilified, he knew. She would be blamed, as women always were in these situations, for leading the beloved priest astray. Never mind, of course, that it had been Lucien who pursued her from the very beginning. No one would care about that. All they would see was Jean who had worked for the priest only to end up as his wife once he was forced to abandon them all for the privilege of getting to be with her. The both of them would be persona non grata in the community if they stayed. Lucien would not be able to get a job anywhere, surely, for who would hire a disgraced priest? Jean would similarly be unemployable, and even if she weren't, Lucien would hate to be unable to provide for her, to force her to work when he could not support them. They might have more luck if they moved, but that would mean forcing Jean to sell her house. She loved that house, he knew, and it would hurt them both if she had to leave it. And, even if they did leave, what could he do? He'd been a good doctor at one time, but it had been so long. Could he really make a living that way? Surely no hospital would hire him with such a woefully deficient CV as a physician.

No matter how he looked at it, they were well and truly stuck. They were trapped in their current situation. If they were going to be able to be together and in love, this was how it had to be. Hiding in the rectory where no one could see and carrying on in public as though there was nothing untoward between them. It was killing him to continue on this way, but if he had to give up Jean, what point would there be in living at all?


	36. Chapter 36

**XXXVI**

Jean walked through St. Catherine's and smiled pleasantly at the practicing choir. She gave a friendly wave to Mrs. Williams as she went by. That poor choir really was atrocious, but they were all such nice people and so earnest in their efforts. It was hard to fault them, really. And she was still very glad she'd declined Lucien's suggestion that she join the choir. There were far more interesting and enjoyable ways she spent her time now, though only she and Lucien knew that.

With that secretive little smile on her face, she made her way through the church corridor towards the priest's office. Sure enough, Lucien was at his desk, deep in thought over something in front of him.

"There you are," she said.

He looked up and gave a sad sort of smile. "Ah, hello, Jean. Close the door, please."

She frowned, wondering what could be bothering him to react like that. She closed the door as he asked and crossed toward him. She stood beside his chair, leaning back against the desk. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing wrong, really, but rather inconvenient," he said.

"Oh?"

He sighed heavily and handed her a letter. She started to read it but he told her what it said. "The Bishop is coming to visit. For a whole week. He's a nice enough man, but I'm sure you can understand why I'm not looking forward to the visit."

Jean gave a knowing smirk. "Well, I do know you don't enjoy oversight. And unlike his visit two years ago, I think you'll need to put on a better show for him," she said, still skimming the letter. It was signed Bishop Martin Lascelles.

Lucien took the letter back and tossed it aside on the desk as he stood up. He wrapped his arms around Jean and leaned in to kiss her softly. "I think we both know it means no more sleepovers. No more stolen moments."

She hummed in agreement, though she did not like it. It was inevitable with this horrid situation they had to suffer. She knew what it was to have an illicit relationship like this. It was like sneaking around with Christopher when they were in school, before secrets had been drawn into the open on that horrible day she realized she'd fallen pregnant. Only this time she was more than twice the age she'd been back then. She should have known better. They both should have. There were rules to Lucien's station in life, rules that they had trampled over time and again in the months they'd carried on like this. She worried constantly that they'd be found out, that they would be utterly ruined by it. But when she was with him, when he held her in his arms, when he kissed her, when he gave her toe-curling pleasure, all her doubts flew right out of her head.

"Bishop Lascelles is due to arrive on Thursday. We should make sure all your things are out of the rectory before then," Lucien thought aloud.

Her heart sank. It was already Monday. They did not have much time left. "Yes, I'll go start collecting my things," she said resignedly.

"Well, not just yet," he said. There was a little sparkle in his eye at that.

"What are you smirking about?" she asked, almost wanting to laugh at that dear expression on his face.

"Just thinking about what I'll do without you for a whole week. I want to make the most of our time till then. And I'm thinking I might need a bit of a souvenir to remember you by." His voice was low, practically a growl.

Jean felt a stirring in the pit of her stomach when he spoke to her in that tone. "You think you'll forget about me?" she teased. "I assume I'll still have a job during that week, unless you'd rather I just stay home."

"We can figure out the details later, but I won't be able to do this for a whole week, and that's what matters to me right now."

She was about to ask 'won't be able to do what' but he hiked up her skirt and put his hand up underneath it to stroke her through her knickers. Jean couldn't speak after that, only whimper in pleasure.

Lucien chuckled at her reaction and redoubled his efforts. Jean put her hand on the back of his neck to pull her in to kiss her deeply, moaning softly against his tongue. As they kissed, Lucien's hands wandered. She pulled back, confused as to why he'd stopped. But then he began to kiss down her neck, sucking gently on her pulse point. His hands had moved to her thighs and started undoing her stockings.

"What are you doing?" she whispered, wondering what on earth he could possibly think he was doing in his office inside the church with the choir practicing just down the hall.

"I have to unclip your stockings," he explained, his lips still attached to her neck, "in order to do this."

Before she could stop him, Lucien grabbed her knickers and pulled them down. She gasped, and he bent down to pick them up, making her step out of them where they were around her ankles. He swiftly opened a drawer in his desk and put them inside and closed it up again. "Lucien!" she scolded.

"Souvenir," he said, smirking so smugly she didn't know what to do.

Jean was absolutely appalled. And yet…she also wasn't. He was just so satisfied with himself. She could not help herself. She started to laugh.

Lucien's smile grew and he too began to laugh with her. They kissed through their giggles, delighting in their utter joy together.

Eventually she had to pull away to catch her breath. "What do you expect me to do now, hmm?"

He was still smiling. Oh how she loved that smile. He bent slightly to reach her stockings again. This time he was reclipping them. "Go about your day, Mrs. Beazley."

She swatted him in the chest for that. "Lucien! You've taken my knickers!"

"And no one but you and I will be the wiser, eh?"

He was probably right about that. But that did not mean she approved. Though what could she do? It was not so terrible. Her skirt was demure. Her stockings were back in place. Ah well. Jean sighed, "Alright. But that does mean I've got to go collect my things from the rectory and go home again."

"If I recall correctly, you've got a clean set of your underthings in one of the drawers in the bedroom," he noted.

"But wouldn't it be more fun if I just take my things home and stay just like this till I'm home?"

His jaw dropped. Good. That was her intention. It wasn't right that the priest should be the one scandalizing her all the time. She had a bit of a naughty streak herself, one that Lucien brought out in full force.

Jean patted his cheek and pushed him away gently so she could leave. "Enjoy your souvenir," she teased.

With that, she opened the door to his office and left it open behind her as she left. The choir must have finished its rehearsal, as there wasn't any more squawking coming from the nave. But when Jean entered, she saw Mrs. Williams putting her sheet music away. Everyone else must have gone already.

"Good rehearsal today, Mrs. Williams?" Jean asked pleasantly.

The old woman turned to look at her and did not have the kind expression Jean usually saw. No, her lips were set in a hard line and her eyes were cold. "You're a wicked woman, Mrs. Beazley," Mrs. Williams hissed.

"I beg your pardon?" Jean was stunned, not being prepared for such a thing.

"You and Father Blake spend too much time together. It's not right, a widow and a priest."

"I am paid for my work, Mrs. Williams. And I work very hard," Jean countered. It was the truth, after all. Even before their relationship had taken this sinful turn, Jean had spent the same amount of time with Lucien when she was just working as she did now. Except for the sleepovers, of course.

"Hard work doesn't mean closeness like you've got. It isn't right," Mrs. Williams insisted.

Jean did not know what to say. Anxious knots in her stomach threatened to tear her to pieces. But she would not let this mean, bitter old woman see the effect of her words. Jean would hold her head high, as she always did. "I'm sorry you feel that way, Mrs. Williams. I'll not waste either of our time trying to convince you otherwise, and I'll thank you to keep your vicious opinions to yourself."

With that, Jean walked out of the church. The click of her heels on the marble made her feel powerful. And the slight scratch of her slip against her bare bum, while undermining her words to Mrs. Williams, somehow empowered her as well.


	37. Chapter 37

**XXXVII**

"Thank you so much for coming to help me, Jean. I was at the end of my rope!" Abigail lamented.

Jean moved about the kitchen in the Harris house making tea. "I'm happy to help," she replied, giving a gentle smile to the younger woman.

Abigail had called Jean first thing in the morning on Saturday, when Jean had barely finished her breakfast. Jean answered the telephone to the sounds of sobbing from her friend. Jean had rushed right over immediately.

It turned out that Abigail was pregnant, and she was having a lot of trouble coping. Her husband, Archie, had been working more and more shifts in order to help support their growing family. They'd only been married for thirteen months, and Abigail had only just started becoming comfortable in her role as a wife. Now, she'd be a mother by Queen's Birthday. Having Archie busy with work and having Mrs. Harris, her mother-in-law, taken ill and unable to help anymore, Abigail was all on her own. The morning sickness was debilitating, and the rest of the house was falling apart because she couldn't manage to get anything done without having to vomit.

When Jean arrived, she helped get Abigail cleaned up and dressed in something slightly more comfortable. She'd been wearing a very smart outfit which surely made her feel better about herself, but the cut of the skirt was too tight and her girdle was doing far more harm than good. Jean was able to find a looser-fitting dress to wear to help keep her cool in the summer heat and not put too much pressure on her slowly growing belly.

After that, Abigail was feeling better but still mildly nauseous. For that, Jean imparted some old home remedies she'd used when she was pregnant. "My first pregnancy wasn't bad, actually, but it was awful with my boys." She skated over the fact that the first pregnancy had not ended with a child. That wasn't something to discuss now, not with a newly pregnant young woman. No need to frighten her, after all. That pregnancy had been extremely easy until the miscarriage. Being sick for six of nine months with Christopher Junior and then for the whole nine months with Jack had actually brought her some comfort. Those pregnancies had been difficult, but they were different than the one that had ended so tragically. And in the end, Jean had given birth to two perfectly healthy baby boys.

"What did you do to keep from being miserable all the time?" Abigail asked, begging for any kind of help she could get.

And so Jean went about making tea. She cleaned up the kitchen, just to give Abigail some help, and when the kettle went off, she showed Abigail exactly what to do. "Peppermint tea should help settle your stomach, and strong, fresh lemon."

"Lemon in peppermint tea?" Abigail asked dubiously.

"Either of them work, but I for me they worked best together. The other thing that helps is fresh air. So why don't we take our tea out to the garden and we can sit for a while out there," Jean suggested.

That nearly brought Abigail to tears again. "Oh Jean, I haven't been able to do all the things you've taught me in the garden, and I'm afraid it's all a mess!"

"That's alright. Nothing a little attention and effort can't solve. And it'll be there for you when you're able," she soothed.

The two made their way to the garden. It actually wasn't as awful as Jean had feared. There were some overgrown weeds and a few dead flowers, but all in all, it was a perfectly fine garden that had just suffered a little bit of neglect.

Jean considered offering to fix it up for Abigail sometime over the next few days, as it would only take her a day to do it on her own and she wasn't as busy with Lucien anymore while Bishop Lascelles was in town, but she decided against it. This was the Harris house, not the Beazley house. Jean had no claim or responsibility here. If Abigail asked for her help, Jean would assist. But it was not her place to butt in and take over, even under the guise of helping.

"This tea is actually nicer than I expected," Abigail said. "I didn't think the peppermint would go well with the lemon, but it's perfectly fine."

"And is your stomach settling at all?"

Abigail nodded. "I feel like all of me is settling now. I don't think I realized how lonely I was, actually, being here all by myself all day every day. My neighbors are all busy with their own families, and I don't want to impose. And I just don't want anyone to think less of me that I can't do all of this on my own."

"No one can do everything on their own. When I first got married and when I was pregnant, I had my mother and my sister and my neighbors all helping me. And now you have me," Jean told her.

"You're so kind, Jean."

"I'm glad to help," she replied humbly.

Abigail took another soothing sip of tea. "You seem different than when I last saw you, though," she noted.

Jean wasn't sure how to take that. "Do I?"

"Yes," Abigail responded with a smile. "You have always been so nice and helpful ever since we met at the florist's that day. But now you're…I don't know…different. Lighter somehow. Happier."

Well, that was certainly true. She was happier.

Abigail continued, "I don't think I realized that you maybe weren't happy before. But I can see now that you are. Has something changed?"

Jean was not entirely sure how to answer that, so she chose her words carefully. "I am happier, certainly. When we met, I'd only been living in town a few weeks. I didn't really know anyone, and I was just starting in my work at St. Catherine's. It's taken a while for me to find my place. It's really difficult to start your life over somewhere new all on your own. At least it was for me. I lived in the same town all my life, you see. I was born on my parents' farm and I lived there till I moved two miles down the road to the farm my husband and I owned, and I was there until after my husband died and I couldn't keep it anymore. My sons and I moved in with my sister in town, and then when my boys left home, I became a live-in housekeeper. All in that same town."

"But now you're settled here and you'll stay, won't you?" Abigail asked hopefully.

"Yes, I'll stay. I have a life here that's all my own. I love my house and the new friends I've made. I'm very happy here, Abigail, and I have no intention on leaving." She reached over and took the younger woman's hand. "Besides, I can't wait to meet your little one."

Abigail beamed with joy, placing her free hand over her barely visible bump. "I can't wait either. I didn't think I'd be having a baby so soon, and half the time I'm still terrified that I don't know what I'm doing, but I'm just so excited to be a mum."

"It's the hardest thing in the world," Jean said, "because you cease to be yourself and you're just someone else's mother for a very long time. I loved taking care of my boys and being able to teach them and protect them. I sometimes worry I wasn't as successful as I'd wanted to be, but we had each other and we did alright. The difficulty really came after they left and I had to figure out how to be myself again and not just their mother. But really, Abigail, I think you'll find that being a mother is the best time in your life. And I have a feeling you'll be wonderful at it."

Tears fell down Abigail's face. Those pregnancy hormones were really getting her, poor thing. "Thank you, Jean," she said as her voice hitched.

"Shh, don't cry. Just drink your tea and calm down," Jean advised.

The two women sat together quietly for a little while. Jean reflected on what she'd told Abigail, about how happy she'd come to be in this town. And she had. So much of it, of course, had to do with falling in love with Lucien and getting to be with him, despite the severe limits of their circumstances. It couldn't last forever, of course. But for now, everything was quite good. She had friends and she had a position working to help Lucien in the church that she liked very much. And, of course, she absolutely loved her house. She wished that Lucien could spend more time with her there, since it was so wonderful to make love to him in her bed after she'd gotten over the flu just after Christmas. But of course they could not risk that, having him be seen coming and going too much. They already had been noticed for their closeness at St. Catherine's by Mrs. Williams and who knows who else. They'd maintained decorum in the church, aside from a few stolen kisses and Lucien stealing her knickers in his office. Otherwise, their romance was confined to the rectory.

Yes, things were going along just fine. Jean was happy. She knew she was. Things were not perfect, but she was happy for now, and that was what she would hold onto.


	38. Chapter 38

**XXXVIII**

Being nervous seemed really quite silly. Lucien Blake had been leading Sunday Mass for fifteen years. This was just like any other, really. Nothing special about this Sunday at all.

Only Jean had been right, that he did not like having oversight. One of the best things about being a priest for him had always been that he could exist on his own without interference. And every few years, the bishop would come to town to check in on things. Damned nuisance was what it was.

And so Lucien readied himself for Mass, donning his green vestments. Bishop Lascelles would be giving the homily as a nice treat for the parishioners, to hear the words of their bishop. Lucien and Ned and Peter would handle the rest, just as they did every Sunday. Lucien also had a feeling that the bishop would insist on giving communion as well, and Lucien would not fight him for it. Though he did not like interference in his work, he wasn't all that possessive of it. He didn't much care who did what around the church so long as he was left well enough alone. That used to be so that he could brood and drink and pass out in peace, but now there was a much more vital purpose to his desire for privacy; now he was only concerned about being left alone with Jean.

These last few days had been absolute hell. He and Jean had discussed it before the bishop's arrival. She'd not come to make him breakfast—he didn't really need that anymore, since he did not wake up hungover anymore and she woke up beside him half the time anyway—and she would only be present for necessary church assistance functions. Jean had met Bishop Lascelles at catechism on Thursday afternoon, just after the bishop arrived. She'd been friendly and polite as always, and on that day, she and Lucien had done a very good job at maintaining a professional distance. It wasn't too difficult, what with the children around anyway.

Friday and Saturday, Jean came by to tend the garden and do the flower arrangements for the altar. Otherwise, Lucien hadn't seen her. And he missed her terribly. Much of it was due to the desperate way he loved her, but that was not all. More than anything, he thought, he'd just gotten used to having her around. He had been spoiled by getting to watch her work, seeing the way her hips swayed when she walked, having her nearby for him to reach out and touch her and hold her in his arms and kiss her and take her to bed and make love to her. They had so much together, but it still was not enough. Lucien wanted with a need so great he worried it might consume him to be with Jean in every way now and always.

If he had been allowed, he would have married her back at Christmas. But they had discussed it. She would not allow him to leave the Church because he was the parish priest and the people needed him. And though he did not have much devout Catholic feeling within him, he knew Jean was right. He was proud to serve and guide the people of this town. Though Confession annoyed him and bored him to tears, he enjoyed writing his homilies and teaching the children. He enjoyed imparting a different way of thinking about scripture on the captive audience. And, just as when he'd been a doctor, Lucien enjoyed being able to use his knowledge and skill to actually help those in need. Celebrating weddings and baptisms, easing suffering at deathbeds and funerals. These were things he was proud to be able to do. Even if he did wish that he could toss it all aside in favor of living out his days with Jean.

But here he was, preparing in his office with Bishop Lascelles. Peter had knocked on the door to let them know it was time. They walked out as the choir performed their pathetic offering. And off they went.

Most of the service was so engrained in him that Lucien barely paid attention. It was muscle memory that took him through each task and a perfectly memorized script that led the prayers. Knowing that the bishop was evaluating his performance did not cause him to falter, though he did try to put on a bit better of a show than his usual rote behavior. Only the homily ever gave him any sense of feeling, and he'd not be performing that today.

"The homily this morning will be given by our visiting guest, Bishop Lascelles. I know we'll all be quite blessed to hear him preach today," Lucien announced, gesturing to the pulpit for the bishop. Lucien himself sat off to the side next to Ned; the altar boys were always very well behaved, keeping in their seats during the Mass. At least, he assumed they were. He'd never noticed one way or the other. He was always out front leading Mass.

It was strangely nice to have a break from the monotony today. The bishop's words about faith and being a child of God—through the lens of John 1:12—washed over him. Lucien thought it was an interesting subject though he found Bishop Lascelles' analysis rather trite. His mind began to wander.

He looked out into the crowd. Most people knew that the bishop was in town so the pews were fuller than usual. All of the regulars were there, of course, and plenty of those he typically only saw at Easter and Christmas had come for the occasion as well.

But one face jumped out at him in a way that shocked him, for he had not noticed in all the time he'd been standing at the pulpit. There, halfway back on the far end of the pew, was Jean. Oh but she did look lovely. She always looked lovely, but he knew that she put in a bit of extra effort to look nice for Mass. She only attended about half the time, more often than some but not as often as the devout parishioners. It was always wonderful to see her, knowing that a friendly face was out there for him to focus on. But it had been more than four days since he'd had the pleasure of her company in private. He missed her. He was absolutely lovesick, he knew, but it didn't change the fact that he adored her and he missed not being able to have her around, and seeing her there and be so close and yet still so far was torture.

Jean had her head turned in the direction of the bishop, but she turned and their eyes locked. Lucien could only imagine how he looked, gazing longingly at her, yearning to be closer to her. He felt a strange sense of awe come over him when he saw that brilliant turquoise sparkle in her eye and the gentle way her soft, red-tinted lips curled into a smile. When she looked at him like that, he felt the whole world fall away. Oh he wished it would! What he wouldn't have given in that moment for everything to disappear and leave only Jean and himself alone here in this sacred space.

This church was sacred to him, now. More so than ever before. It was presumably a house of God, but it was the place where he and Jean had shared their first kiss. It was the place where they had first come together, where he had had first told her that he loved her, where she had first told him that she loved him. The daily joys and tribulations of their relationship had been reserved for the rectory, but all of the big, important moments, those had happened right here in this church. In the chapel off to the left of where Jean sat now and on the marble altar table just behind where the bishop stood preaching. For Jean and Lucien, this was their sacred place of worship, not of God but of each other.

Jean blinked and turned away from him, looking back to Bishop Lascelles, and the spell was broken. Lucien realized that the homily had ended and it was now his turn to finish off the Mass. He stood and went back to his duties.

When Mass finally ended, he noticed that Jean gave him a knowing smile and a little nod before she swiftly left St. Catherine's. He wished he could follow her out. He wished even more that he could know that she would be in the rectory waiting for him. But alas, no. The last few days of Bishop Lascelles' visit might be the death of him.

Many parishioners wanted to speak to the bishop, and Lucien knew it was his duty to stay and introduce everyone. And so he did what he had to do and hated every bloody minute of it.


	39. Chapter 39

**XXXIX**

Lucien was having lunch by himself in the rectory. There was enough food in for him to make a sandwich for himself. Bishop Lascelles had come by earlier asking to borrow Lucien's office in St. Catherine's to work on some correspondence. There was plenty of stationary at the hotel where the bishop was staying, so Lucien did not see why he needed the use of the church office, but at least he'd had the decency to ask.

Bishop Lascelles was a decent man. Whatever else Lucien felt about the Church and about his higher ups, Martin Lascelles was a good man who had earned the position of bishop. Lucien did not quite like having him around, of course, but he did not begrudge the man the position. It had been the same in the army. Lucien could always respect his superiors if he could understand why and how they had that position. Otherwise, he had a lot of trouble following orders just for the sake of rank. There had been enough times during his military service where he'd been the only one questioning an order when he realized he'd only joined the army because it would annoy his father. And then he'd done it again when he'd joined the clergy to annoy his father and appease his mother's spirit. Both choices had led him to the same conclusion, that he was far too much of an individual thinker to do well as a cog in a greater machine.

But there was no use worrying too much about that now. Lascelles was fine, and he'd be leaving tomorrow. He'd be serving Wednesday Mass and then departing in the morning. Lucien could not wait for it. With the bishop gone, he'd have his freedom again. And his freedom meant Jean.

He sat at the kitchen table eating his rather pathetic lunch and thought about what tomorrow might bring. It was Thursday, which meant catechism. She would come to the church for class with the children. And after they all left, he could take her back to the rectory. He could hold her hand and pull her into his arms. He could finally kiss her again after a whole week.

Lucien thought about how he could make this little reunion special for them. He'd perhaps spend the morning after the bishop left arranging for something special for dinner for them. He didn't want Jean to have to cook, but he couldn't very well get too much for them lest anyone ask why he needed enough for two. He'd have to see what he could figure out. And he'd set the table nicely. Perhaps try and collect some flowers from the rectory garden that she'd planted and cared for, put together an arrangement of sorts for the table. Jean would like that, he thought. Jean liked flowers. And he would put on a record for them to dance to together in the parlor with the curtains drawn. They could be back in their own little world, just the two of them. And then, after they'd danced and shared dinner and cleaned up the kitchen, Lucien could finally take her to bed again with him. He could make love to her and hold her in his arms and wake up beside her the next day. That was all he ever wanted, and after a whole week, it could finally become reality again.

But that was tomorrow. Now, he still had to get through today. He finished his sandwich and drank down a glass of water and cleaned his dishes. When that was all done, he checked to make sure his collar was straight and returned to St. Catherine's to see what Bishop Lascelles was getting up to.

The church was eerily quiet. The choir did not practice at this time of day, and with no holiday coming up, there were no volunteers decorating anything. There was no one inside St. Catherine's, and Lucien actually found he sometimes liked it best that way. He felt most comfortable inside the church when he could be alone there. Or alone with Jean. But alone was almost as good. He liked to take in the beauty and quiet serenity of the space. He looked off to the red satin curtain behind the altar on which the crucifix hung proudly. Lucien did not get much opportunity to see it, seeing as he usually stood with his back to that crucifix.

His memory flashed on when he'd stood facing it, when he'd seen that red backdrop and not had a single religiously motivated though. It was when he'd stood between Jean's legs as she sat on the marble altar and thrust inside her as they chased pleasure inside one another for the first time. He'd looked up and seen that crucifix, and he'd been so at peace and so full of pleasure that it actually made him smile. The crucifix otherwise did not ever make him smile. It was only the memory he now associated that did that.

Lucien walked through the corridor toward his office where he knew the bishop was working. He knocked once on the partially closed door and entered. "Good afternoon, Your Excellency."

Bishop Lascelles beckoned him entry—to his own office, which Lucien was mildly annoyed by. "Close the door, Father Blake."

It seemed an odd thing, seeing as no one else was in the church. But Lucien did as he was told.

Before he could say anything else, Bishop Lascelles held up a pen. "I was looking for a pen. There wasn't one out on the desk. So I looked in the drawers. And I did find one here," he said. "But I did find something else. Something…most concerning."

Lucien furrowed his brow, not quite understanding what was going on. The bishop took the pen and opened the bottom drawer. The bottom drawer. Lucien understood what was happening now.

Bishop Lascelles used the pen to lift a bit of white silk out of the drawer. "I was not expecting to find this, Father Blake."

If he'd been a different sort of man, Lucien might have begun sputtering some kind of excuses or pitiful explanations. Or he might have ranted and raved about invasion of privacy. But Lucien was not that sort of man. He stood still and silent and waited for the bishop to show his hand, to reveal what it was he was thinking about the fact that he'd just found Jean's knickers in the drawer of the priest's desk.

"I do not know to whom these belong," the bishop said, and Lucien found himself relaxing infinitesimally. "Nor do I know how long you've kept them in here. I do not know if they have been given willingly or of something more nefarious is at play."

Ice hardened around Lucien's heart at that, but still he said nothing.

"But while I do not want or need answers to those particular questions, Father Blake, I do find myself with one very glaring answer to this whole business." Thankfully, Bishop Lascelles dropped Jean's knickers back into the drawer and closed it. He obviously felt just as uncomfortable with their presence as Lucien, though for wildly different reasons.

"And what might that be, Your Excellency?" Lucien asked calmly. He'd still not give anything away yet. He still needed to know what the ramifications of this mortifying discovery might be before he took any position one way or the other.

"This item in your desk drawer is a clear indication that your vow of celibacy is in grave danger. And frankly I don't care to know how much in danger, whether you have broken it or whether the risk of doing so is still invading your mind. If you wish to give Confession to me, I shall hear it. But regardless of your sins, Father Blake, there is but a singular solution I can foresee."

"Oh?" It took everything in him not to burst out laughing at the very idea of giving Confession to Bishop Lascelles of all people. Never mind the fact that he did not feel particularly comfortable with the idea of confessing anything to the bishop, Lucien still did not nor had he ever thought of his love for Jean as a sin. The lust he felt for her was no sinful possessive, physical desire. He wanted to bed her to bring her pleasure and find pleasure of his own with her for the simple reason that he loved her. He loved her and he would never apologize for that. He would not dare count it as a mortal sin, no matter what the Church might say. Lucien Blake loved Jean Beazley with all his heart. No biblical canon would change that.

The Bishop stood up from Lucien's desk and handed him an envelope. "I have made an exact copy for the archdiocese with my formal and urgent instruction to have you transferred."

"What!?" Such a thing caught Lucien by surprise. He'd thought some discipline would be in order, but a transfer!?

"You shall have two weeks to clear out the rectory before your replacement arrives. You shall travel to the archdiocese in Melbourne and stay there to await your next posting elsewhere. It is clear that there is temptation in this parish for you, Father Blake. The only cure is to remove you from it."


	40. Chapter 40

**XL**

Jean was upstairs fixing her hair. She was going to go to Wednesday evening Mass and wanted to look nice. Part of it was just making herself presentable for Mass in general, part of it was making a good impression on Bishop Lascelles, but most of it was wanting to look nice for Lucien. Oh she knew he did not care if her hair was freshly set or not. She did not doubt his love or think at all that it depended on such things. But she wanted to put forth a little extra effort, just to show her care, just so he might see her and derive a bit of pleasure from her appearance.

They'd barely spent more than a few minutes together in the week that the bishop had been in town. Jean missed him terribly. She'd gotten quite used to being able to be with Lucien and be close to him and hurry off to the rectory and close the curtains and fall together in privacy and passion. Thankfully, the bishop was leaving tomorrow morning. Jean intended on assisting with catechism and not going back home until Monday if she could help it. Perhaps that was a bit too risky, but she didn't care, thinking of it now. She wanted to be with him. She wanted to feel his touch and his kiss and his love. As much as she adored her little house all decorated exactly as she wanted, Jean found it rather stifling when she was not permitted to be with Lucien as they'd been the last few months.

A thundering knock on the door interrupted her. With a slight grumble, she put down the roller she'd been about to put in her hair and resigned herself to having limp curls to greet whoever was pounding on her front door.

Jean opened the door to find Lucien standing there with wild eyes and a desperate expression. She didn't even have a chance to greet him when he took two steps toward her, pulled her into his arms, and kissed her hungrily.

She vaguely heard the door close. He must have kicked it shut. But she couldn't scold him for it now, not when his mouth moved on hers so seductively and his tongue delving into her mouth.

Lucien pulled back eventually, breathing heavily. He still held her close and rested his forehead against hers. "Jean," he said between ragged breaths.

"What's going on?" she asked, stroking his cheeks comfortingly. As lovely as it was to kiss him again, it was extremely unexpected. He'd burst into her home without a word, and he was clearly quite upset over something.

And that was when she realized that he wasn't in his cassock. He was not wearing his collar. He looked now as he did when they were alone together, in just his shirt and trousers, and that was why she did not immediately notice the difference. But if Lucien had come all the way from St. Catherine's to her front door without his proper priestly attire, something must be very wrong indeed.

Lucien had not answered her yet. His fingers were clenching and fidgeting nervously at her waist. "Lucien," she murmured, needing to push him along.

"Jean, I'm so sorry," he said.

At that point, she had to pull away. "Lucien, what's going on?" she asked again, this time much firmer.

"I…I've left."

Her heart dropped into her stomach. "What?"

He walked around, rubbing his hand on the back of his head as he often did when he was anxious over something. "It all happened so fast, I can hardly…" he muttered.

"Lucien," she snapped sharply, "are you telling me that you have done something to endanger your position in the Church?"

"I had no choice, Jean," he explained. He looked at her with the most pained expression. Her heart nearly softened. Nearly.

Jean was getting frustrated over these vague, half-answers. "What on earth are you talking about? Lucien! Tell me what's happened!"

He swallowed hard and his eyes darted around as he tried to search for the words. "Bishop Lascelles was in my study in St. Catherine's. He had some letters to write, he said, and it was easier to stay in the church than to go back to his hotel. Only he…he needed to find a pen. He opened the drawers of my desk to find one."

It was then that Jean recalled what lurked in the bottom drawer of his desk. What he'd taken from her and hidden away not ten days ago. "And you were fired over that?" she asked worriedly.

"He found…what I'd left in the bottom drawer. And he didn't fire me. He didn't even ask me anything. He held them up with the pen and spoke…so calmly."

Jean felt her face erupt into a flaming blush. The bishop, of all people, had found her knickers stashed away in the priest's desk! Oh god, this was worse than anything she could have ever imagined.

Lucien continued, "He didn't know they were yours. I would never tell him. He said he didn't know how long I'd had them or if they'd been given to me willingly."

She blanched then, at that. For that would have been an entirely different circumstance. A worrying and nefarious and entirely awful situation.

"He said that it was proof that my vow of celibacy was at risk, if not more. Which, well, he's not wrong there."

Jean shook her head. "No, he's not wrong." Her voice came out in a quiet croak. Jean understood now the wild, desperate look he'd had when he'd arrived here. She was feeling much the same herself now.

"But Jean, he was going to transfer me. No discipline, no questions, nothing. Just send me off somewhere else. And I…I couldn't let that happen. I cannot leave you. I'd rather die than be without you, my darling," he told her beseechingly.

In the back of Jean's mind, she found this whole thing to be rather overly dramatic, but given what she knew of her Lucien and how he must have been feeling through this entire saga, she could not much blame him. "So what did you do?"

Lucien's head hung down in embarrassment. Shame, perhaps. But he looked back up, looked right in her eyes, and said, "I pulled off my collar. I told him I'd not leave this town. He could not make me leave, not if I wasn't in the clergy under his command. I renounced my vows, each and every one that I'd broken and all the ones I'd kept."

Jean was in utter shock. How could he do that!? How could he give up everything he'd ever been just like that!? Though perhaps it was better than trying to remain a priest in this town, arguing against a transfer. And he'd not revealed Jean's part in all of this. That was, perhaps, what she was most worried about. He loved her, yes, but he'd ruined his own life and now the lives of the whole parish community in giving up everything just so he could remain here in town with her.

"I love you, Jean," Lucien said emphatically. "And you know better than most that I've been a barely passable priest for years. I clung to life through this job, not being wretched enough to give up and die but being too terrible to actually try for anything better. Until you, Jean. Until you came and brought light to my life and dedication and virtue to my cold heart. I have been happy, these last months, for the first time in nearly two decades, because of you." He crossed over and took both her hands in his. "Let a new priest come here and shepherd the flock. He was going to come whether I stayed a priest or not. At least this way I won't be sent away. I can…we can be together now."

Her head was spinning. She knew that he had offered to do this for her before. He had tried to tell her that they could be together if he left the Church, but now that he'd done it…it felt much the same. The guilt of taking the priest from the parish was threatening to overwhelm her. She felt lightheaded and weak in the knees. This was a disaster of the highest level, and it was all her fault. "Lucien, how could you?" she asked feebly.

"I didn't have a choice," he insisted.

Perhaps he was right. Perhaps he did not really have a choice. When faced with the prospect of being sent away, he had taken the drastic step that neither of them would have otherwise chosen. But surely it was inevitable, that at some point their illicit affair would be found out and they would have to suffer the consequences? At least no one had walked in on them doing anything inappropriate anywhere, causing their public shame.

But their shame would be public, wouldn't it? Lucien, without his proper vestments, hurrying through the streets of town to her house. Surely someone saw him. And what about after this? What would become of them? People might not know now why their priest had left the Church, but he and Jean could hardly be together after this without everyone learning the truth.

"What are we going to do, Lucien?" she asked sadly. Jean had been the subject of angry whispers before. She knew what it felt like to be ostracized by her town. And she had just gotten here, had just started to make some real friends and feel at home here! And in thirteen months, all of that effort would be for nothing.

Lucien pulled her into his arms and held her tight. Her head was tucked under his chin and she nuzzled against his chest. His heart was beating loudly, but it comforted her. Things couldn't really be so bad when he held her like this. "We'll find a way, Jean," he assured her. "I don't know what we're going to do, but I threw off my collar and my cassock and came straight here because no matter what comes next, I know that I need to be with you."

She sighed sadly. "Together, we'll find a way," she said, repeating his words.

"Yes," he murmured, kissing the top of her hair. "Yes we will."


	41. Chapter 41

**A/N: M-Rating**

**XLI**

Lucien woke slowly. He became aware of light coming through the curtains. There was a weight on top of him as he lay on his back preventing him from rolling over. And there was a light touch on his face, tracing the line of his beard. Lucien indulged in the gentle feeling for a moment, feeling at once comforted and loved. And of course, he knew the only cause for such a feeling.

He smiled and blinked his eyes open. Jean's brilliant turquoise eyes shone as she looked down at him. Her hands were softly caressing his face. Lucien's smile grew. He caught one of her hands in his own so he could press a kiss to her fingertips, and with his other hand, he reached up to pull her face down to his.

The moment their lips met, he felt the sparkle of magic between them. His whole body grew warm and tingled with want. And, of course, it helped that she had perched herself on his lap. He'd not fully noticed, at first, that her bare thighs were resting on top of his. They'd fallen asleep naked in each other's arms and woke up just the same way.

After a few sensuous kisses, Jean pulled back. "Good morning," she whispered.

"Good morning," he replied. Her voice had been soft and gentle but his was gravelly from sleep.

Jean brushed back his hair and smiled. "I'm glad you're here. I like having you wake up with me."

"I'll wake up with you any morning you'll allow, Jean," he vowed. "Until my dying day."

"I think it's a bit early for dramatics," she chided lightly. But she smiled, letting him know she was teasing.

But Lucien meant it. It had been less than twenty-four hours earlier that he had renounced his vows as a priest. He'd been overwhelmed by it all, the prospect of being transferred away from Jean, the realization that their secret life had been nearly discovered, the terror of having everything good in his life be torn asunder. And so he'd thrown it all aside and run straight to Jean. There was no one else he wanted or needed in all the world but her. He realized, of course, that he would need to find a job and a new way to find something to keep his mind busy. He loved Jean more than anything, but it wasn't fair to either of them to expect her to be the sum total of his world.

Just for now, however, he wanted to focus solely on her. They'd recovered from the shock of their changed circumstances the day before and made the rather obvious decision to not go to Mass. Jean made dinner and Lucien helped her with the dishes, and they fell into bed making love well into the night. Hopefully Jean had the same idea for the morning, for that suited him just fine.

* * *

Jean knew they'd have to get out of bed and start the day and figure out their lives soon enough. But just for now, she did not want to think or worry. She only wanted to be with him. She only wanted to feel the strength of his body between her thighs and the scratch of his beard on her skin and the power of his love inside her. Perhaps it was delaying the inevitable downfall she knew would find them, but it would not and could not find them here in her bed. And so they would stay here a little longer.

She leaned in to kiss him deeply. His hands were roaming her body, up and down her bare back and massaging her breasts. Her own hand snuck between their bodies and stroked his hardening cock. She wrapped her delicate fingers around his length and gave it a light squeeze. He whimpered against her mouth, making her laugh. It was a heady thing, to feel power over a man as powerful as Lucien. He was so strong and so imposing so often. But Jean knew he was putty in her hands. Or, at this precise moment, he was marble in her hands.

When he was ready, she sat up, panting and smiling. Jean got up on her knees and lined him up with her entrance. And slowly she sank down upon him. The groan of deep pleasure that escaped Lucien's lips was a sound she treasured. She felt so good, so full, so glorious. Her hips gyrated as she found her pleasure on him. His hands had moved by now to the swell of her bum and he squeezed her flesh enough to make her bruise. But oh she did not care. Let his passion mark her body just as it had marked her very heart and soul.

Jean started to ride him, bracing herself on his muscled chest. He thrust up into her, matching each movement of her increasingly frenzied rhythm. They were both sweating and breathing hard and repeating each other's names in the holiest benediction imaginable.

And when she felt him sputter and spurt inside her with his completion, her own body clenched down on him in rolling waves of her own pleasure. Lucien had once told her that they were the most sacred and most profane thing in all of existence. Here and now, she felt it.

* * *

Lucien indulged in the passion and ease of the morning with Jean. After they collapsed sated in each other's arms, they dozed off for a little while to regain their strength. Then, they'd taken a bath together which had somehow eventually achieved its purpose of cleaning them both off. But by then, they were both starving. Jean made him breakfast in her own kitchen for the first time instead of in his.

That was an abrupt realization for him, as he helped her wash the breakfast dishes. It wasn't his kitchen anymore. It wasn't his house. The rectory was the residence for the priest. And Lucien was no longer the parish priest.

"Jean, I've got to go to the rectory later today," he said.

She nodded. "I figured we'd go pack up your things at some point. But perhaps you should go and speak to Bishop Lascelles again, now that you've calmed down. You'll need to know what all the Church expects of you during this process."

He frowned. That was not something he wanted to consider, that he might still owe something to the clergy that had been his prison. He felt so free and hopeful now that he'd left. Though that might also have been the effect of spending the morning in bed with Jean. Nevertheless, she was right. He'd need to speak with Bishop Lascelles. "I should go on my own. I would like your help in packing up my things, once I know how quickly everything will have to be out."

"Of course," she answered. "You just tell me when. It's not as though I've got a job anymore."

Lucien felt a little stunned at that. He'd not realized…he'd been Jean's employer. She made her livelihood from the wages he paid her from the parish budget. "Oh Jean, I'm so sorry…"

"Don't be," she insisted. A wry smile came over her face. "I can ease a bit of my guilt now, finally. The inheritance I received from your father will be more than enough for us to get by until we figure something out. After all, it's his money I used to buy this house. And now we can both live in it."

"You…want me to live here? With you?"

She gave him an odd look. "Lucien, where else would you go?"

He knew she was right. He had nowhere else to go. And he had left his position for her, to be with her. But he certainly did not like the idea that she would have to be the one to support him until he found a way to make a living to support them both. After all, the first thing he'd thought of when he'd hurled his resignation at Father Lascelles was that he was now free to marry Jean. And he would marry her. Just a soon as he could guarantee some security. Until then, he'd just have to swallow his pride and live in the house that his father's money had bought. That did ease the awkwardness a little. "You're sure you don't mind?" he asked, hoping he would not have to blatantly address the fact that they would be living out of wedlock for some time.

Jean leaned over to kiss him sweetly. "I want you right here with me each day. Besides, I've got a feeling that things will not be very easy for us quite soon. Best that we have each other to see us through."

Lucien smiled at that. "Quite right."

"And I spent months taking care of you physically when you were too drunk to stand. Now I can take care of you financially as well," she teased.

He laughed. "Jean, whatever would I do without you?"

She smirked and kissed him again. "You'll never need to find out."

* * *

Jean spent the afternoon doing the laundry, since she and Lucien had made an absolute mess of the sheets. She needed to get some towels and extra things for him, now that they'd be sharing the bathroom and every other part of her little house.

She smiled to herself. She'd meant what she'd told him, that she wanted him here with her. And it was nice to finally have him in her home. She loved him and she loved her house, and now she could have them both.

At just past four, when Lucien had been gone for well over an hour, Jean heard a voice out in the front yard. It made her pause and take a peek out the bedroom window.

"Father Blake!" little Joseph Collins called. "Why weren't you at catechism class? Is Mrs. Beazley sick again? Why are you dressed like that?"

Lucien was walking up the road toward Jean's house when Joseph saw him. "Mrs. Beazley is doing very well. I'm here to see her. We weren't at catechism because I'm not a priest anymore, which is why I'm dressed like this, and Mrs. Beazley doesn't work for the church anymore either."

Jean noticed that Lucien's explanation was straightforward and yet somewhat vague. Probably for the best. She also noticed that he had thankfully been able to change his clothes so he wasn't in the rumpled things he'd been wearing yesterday when he'd come to her.

"Father Blake, how come you're not a priest anymore?"

"There are things that are very important to me that I cannot do as a priest," he said. "And actually you can call me Lucien now, since I'm not Father Blake anymore."

"But I liked you as our priest," Joseph said sadly.

Lucien ruffled the boy's hair affectionately. "That's very sweet of you to say. And I liked getting to teach you. But I'm sure the new priest will be a good one."

But then, disaster struck. "Father Blake, is that you?"

Jean's heart sank. Mrs. Collins had come outside. Jean couldn't see her from this angle, but she could hear her neighbor's voice. Mrs. Collins had always been a wonderful neighbor and a friend to Jean. But she was very devout, and Jean did not know how she might receive this news.

"Mum, he's called Lucien now," Joseph corrected.

"What do you mean?"

Joseph explained, "He's not a priest anymore."

"What!?" Mrs. Collins gasped.

"It is true, I'm afraid," Lucien told her.

Mrs. Collins did not quite understand just yet. "What…what are you doing here?"

"I'm here to see Jean."

That made Mrs. Collins gasp again. "I thought… I thought Mrs. Williams was just jealous that you'd let Mrs. Beazley assist you when no one else was ever given the honor but…Mrs. Williams was right, wasn't she?"

Jean connected those dots very quickly. She'd never told Lucien about that confrontation she'd had with Mrs. Williams that day Lucien had taken her knickers and hid them in his desk, the occasion that led to all of this, in fact. But apparently Jean was not the only person the old woman had addressed these concerns with.

"I'm afraid I don't know what Mrs. Williams has said," Lucien said. His words were polite but his tone was terse and cold. Jean knew he had some inkling of what Mrs. Williams might have said.

"Joseph, go inside," Mrs. Collins snapped. And a moment later, presumably after her son was no longer in earshot, Jean heard her say, "You're a priest. You're not supposed to be taken in by some jezebel like that. With her tight skirts and her lusty, sinful flowers! How could you!"

"I can assure you, Mrs. Collins, that Jean Beazley is no jezebel, though such a term is highly offensive for any woman, and I'd hope you, as a woman yourself, might have a bit more kindness and understanding for another woman, particularly a neighbor and a friend."

"That whore is no friend of mine. Or anyone else's in this town," she hissed.

There was no sound for a moment. Jean looked out the window and could only see part of Lucien's back.

"What are you smiling about?" Mrs. Collins spat.

"I was just thinking about the interesting differences between men and women. There's no real male equivalent for the term 'whore' as you so ineloquently used it. If there were, I'm sure it would apply more to me than 'whore' does to Jean. And I must say you are quite fortunate for those differences between men and women, Mrs. Collins, for if you were a man and not a woman, I would have already beaten you to the ground for daring to say such a thing about Jean Beazley."

The next thing Jean knew, Lucien had stormed away from Mrs. Collins and entered the house, slamming the door angrily behind him. He looked up to see Jean standing right there.

"You heard all that?"

She nodded.

His shoulders slumped. "I'm sorry you had to."

Jean swallowed the lump in her throat. "It's just the beginning, Lucien. Surely you know that."

"I'd hoped…"

She cut him off. "You cannot be so naïve. Mrs. Collins and Mrs. Williams and everyone else in this town is going to think the exact same thing as soon as the news gets around."

Lucien's face was utterly heartbroken. Jean wished she could comfort him. She wished he could comfort her. But there was nothing for it. Not really.


	42. Chapter 42

**XLII**

"Lucien, please ignore it," Jean repeated for the tenth time. Every time she said it, he seemed to calm down, but the whole situation left them both agitated.

They were inside the rectory, packing all of his personal things—clothes, records, books, all the parts of his former life he'd kept as a priest—into boxes. It was the second day they'd been at it, and she was hoping they could finish up tonight. Neither of them wanted to come back again tomorrow if they could help it.

A year ago, Jean had assisted Lucien in going through all of his things and organizing them and tidying up the rectory. This task would have been much more difficult if not for that. But as it was, there were still plenty of things that Lucien needed to decide if he wanted to bring with him to their new life together or else toss out. He wasn't permitted to leave anything behind that was not property of the Church. Bishop Lascelles had been very clear that any and all trace of Lucien Blake was to be removed from St. Catherine's and from the rectory.

They'd spent the first day in the church office clearing out everything from Lucien's desk. Jean's knickers were nowhere to be found, but that didn't really surprise them; the bishop had probably put them in the bin as soon as Lucien had left. At least, they hoped that's what had happened. But the rest of Lucien's things were quick and easy to deal with. They'd finished that quickly and left the church as soon as they could.

"Adulterers!" came a shout from outside.

Lucien looked up with fire in his eyes again. "Leave it," Jean warned once again.

"We aren't even adulterers," Lucien grumbled. "Neither of us is married. If I were a nun, perhaps, since nuns are wedded to God, but priests aren't. The both of us are widowed. Though I suppose that doesn't matter to any of that lot."

"No, it doesn't. Rumor mongers aren't very concerned with details or nuance. Believe me, I know," Jean replied.

Lucien's face fell as he looked at her. "Oh Jean, I'm sorry, I'd forgotten…"

"Forgotten I was visibly pregnant when I got married? Yes. I like to forget when I can. But this is eerily familiar," she said tightly.

"I cannot imagine what that must have been like for you and for your Christopher. Though I suppose I'm experiencing a bit of that now," he said sadly.

"This is worse, actually. Christopher and I were so young. It was shameful to our neighbors and there were whispers and snide remarks, but I think everyone knew it was youthful indiscretion and overly enthusiastic romance that was our downfall. You and I…Lucien, we've sinned in a manner that's practically unheard of. It's inconceivable to most Catholics that their priest could leave them for a widow, particularly at our ages," she pointed out. "We should have known better, we should have had more control over ourselves, we should have had more respect for the Church and your position."

Lucien frowned. "That's not it at all!"

"I know that and you know that, but what do you think this looks like to everyone out there coming by to shout at us?"

He sighed, "I suppose you're right."

"Yes, I know I am. Now keep going through those records and hand me the ones I should put in the box," she chided.

Lucien and Jean went back to their task and she was momentarily able to return to her little escapist fantasy that they were just packing up his house so that he could move in with her and nothing more. It was only when the shouting from passersby occurred that she was rudely ripped back to reality.

All of a sudden, a loud shatter sounded in the front parlor, followed by several cracking thumps. Both Jean and Lucien gasped in shock and scrambled up from where they were sitting on the floor in his bedroom. They ran down the hall to see a rock and broken glass on the sofa from where the window had been shattered. Outside, they could see a small crowd throwing eggs at the front of the rectory.

Something inside Jean snapped. Her blood boiled and every ounce of self-control left her. And without any word, she stormed out the front door.

"How dare you!" she shrieked. "This is Church property!"

"We don't have to answer to you, whore," sneered a man whom Jean had never seen.

"Yell and scream and hurl any insult you want at me or at Lucien, but how dare you harm this property! It's the Church that'll pay for the repairs, not us, you small-minded, ignorant bullies!" Jean shouted.

Another of the men got very close to her and yelled every sort of insult imaginable, calling her nearly every filthy name ever conceived. But Jean did not care. She stood there with her head held high and her defiant expression. She had suffered enough in her life, suffered in silence all on her own in a way these people could never know, and she would take this, just as she'd taken everything else, with however much dignity she could muster, and never once would she let them see her flinch.

* * *

Lucien watched in horror at the terrible scene in front of him. While Jean had, surprisingly, been the one to leap into action, Lucien was practically frozen in shock. Jean had warned him time and again that things would be bad for them now that he'd left the Church. His hope of a quiet life where they were left alone was far too much to ask. He could see that now quite clearly. But it was Jean defending the building these people were attacking, Jean standing tall under their scrutiny. She was like an ancient heroine, defiant and brave and beautiful amidst the ugliness that threatened them.

But then one of those men got too close, too loud, too angry. Jean pushed him back and he shoved her to the ground. And that was when Lucien lost all reason.

"Jean!" he shouted, sprinting to her side and kneeling beside her.

"I'm fine," she insisted. She clutched her hand, bleeding from where she'd landed on the gravel path in front of the rectory.

He shielded her from the onlookers, trying to block them out. "You're sure?"

"Yes," she replied.

Lucien gave a curt nod. "Right." Satisfied that Jean was alright, he stood up and allowed his rage to build back up inside him. He looked to find the man that had dared harm Jean. "There you are, you filthy coward. You think you've got the moral high ground, pushing over a woman? Now that I'm not your priest, Mr. Rolland, I can tell you that your Confessions were some of the pettiest, self-serving dribble I ever had to listen to, and your wife is the most untalented member of the choir. Which, given how terrible they are, is certainly saying something."

Mr. Rolland turned red with fury. "Why you…!"

He never got a chance to finish that thought. Lucien drew back his fist and swung with all his might, connecting with the man's face with so much force, he spun around and landed hard on the ground. Lucien followed him, ready to beat him within an inch of reason, but before he could pursue, he was interrupted.

"LUCIEN!" Jean yelled sharply. "That's enough!"

Her voice brought him back to reality and instantly took the wind from his sails. Mr. Rolland and the other's weren't worth any more of their time. Lucien turned and helped Jean back inside the rectory. They could ignore the crowd now, though they seemed to have lost interest for the moment and dispersed.

"I do appreciate you defending my honor, but did you really have to hit him that hard?" Jean asked. Her voice was quiet now, having lost its former righteous energy.

Lucien took her straight into the kitchen. "I hit him as hard as I needed to," he replied stiffly. "Sit down, please, I'm going to get my medical bag."

Jean did as she was told, and Lucien fetched his things. He got some water and antiseptic and gauze and bandages. She flinched and hissed with pain as he carefully cleaned her wound and plucked all the tiny bits of rock from it. He then sterilized it and dressed it before leaving a lingering kiss on her bandaged hand. "Thank you," she murmured.

He sighed sadly. "I'm so sorry, Jean. For all of this. The whole mess I've brought upon you through my foolish acts."

She took her hand from him to gently caress his cheek. "I'm not sorry. Not at all. It's difficult, yes, but at least we have each other."

Lucien knew she was right, and for that he smiled, but his heart utterly ached. "I don't know that I can stay here. In this town, I mean. Even if we never step foot in St. Catherine's ever again, I just don't see how it does anyone any good my being here. My presence has ruined any peace we might have wished for our life together. These people hate us, and its disrupting everything in the whole town."

"Yes, I think you're right. I had hoped that maybe it would pass, and perhaps it would, but I'd not thought about what effect this might have on everyone else. We're taking focus from things that matter. They're vandalizing the church, Lucien, and it would be selfish for us to stay here in spite of all that," she agreed.

"But Jean, your house."

"What about my house?"

"You love that house. It's yours. You told me yourself it's the first home that was entirely yours that you decorated all yourself. And you just got here. I hate the idea that you've got to give it up and start all over again so soon."

Inexplicably, Jean smiled. "Lucien, I do love my house, that's true. But I will also love the house that we find somewhere else together, because that will be _our_ house. And I did just start over a new life in a new place just last year. But all that means is that I'm capable of starting over. I know how to do that. We can start over again together and begin again somewhere new, somewhere we can just be Jean and Lucien, somewhere we can be happy. I just don't think we can do that here."

For not the first time, Lucien found himself utterly overwhelmed by his love for her. This smart, kind, unspeakably good woman. She loved him despite everything in the world telling her not to, including Lucien himself. She loved him in spite of it all. Or perhaps even a bit because of it all. And she was everything his heart and soul could have ever dreamed of and more.

A sudden thought crossed his mind. "Come with me," he said. He took her uninjured hand and led her outside and down the path.

"Where are we going?" she asked curiously.

The angry mob had thankfully gone, and there was no one around. And though the sun was shining high in the sky, there was a light breeze and a strange quiet that reminded him of exactly what he wanted to revisit now. Jean had to jog to keep up with his lengthy strides, but he slowed and stopped when he reached their destination. "Here," he said.

Jean stood in front of him and gazed at the beauty around them. The willow tree out in front of St. Catherine's. "I do love this tree," she said with a smile. "The first time I saw it, I loved it."

"This was where we first met," he reminded her.

She smiled up at him. "So it is."

"And though things were quite different then, I think now I can finally do what I'd had in my mind to do that first moment I saw you," he said softly.

"What's that?" she asked, though the sparkle in her eyes told him that she already knew.

Lucien leaned in and whispered, "This." His lips brushed hers, lightly at first. But soon her arms wrapped around his neck with her hand on the back of his head, and his hands wandered up and down the curve of her spine as their kiss grew more passionate.

He did not know how long they kept it up, but kissing Jean beneath the willow tree like that, Lucien finally felt free.


	43. Chapter 43

**XLIII**

_Six months later…_

It was a nice little town. All things considered, anyway. Nice and little. They had discussed at length whether they should have gone to a big city somewhere. Or gone abroad. Jean had always wanted to travel, and Lucien had done so extensively when he was younger. And they were planning on taking trip sometime next year, after they got settled. But when it came right down to it, Jean and Lucien did not want to live in a big city, and they did not abroad. Now that neither of them was alone, they only wanted a quiet, peaceful life.

They had started over before, though each of them had done it alone. When Jean's husband died and her children were grown and she needed a way to support herself, she had gotten a good position as a housekeeper with Thomas Blake in Ballarat. When Lucien had survived watching his family slaughtered in the war and he himself was an inch from death in that camp, he had left the army to become a priest. Jean had made good friends with the old Doctor Blake, and Lucien had lived a satisfactory life as a priest for quite a long time. But when the old doctor's illness claimed him and he left the bulk of his estate to Jean, she was forced to start over again.

Within a year, she had met the broken down priest, Father Blake, learned of his connection to the man whose house she'd kept all those years, and devoted herself to caring for him when he seemed incapable and unwilling to do so for himself. And in that devotion, in caring for him and learning the secrets of his past and the truth of his heart, Jean had fallen in love. They both had. But of course, that love was forbidden and dangerous, and it brought ruin upon them.

And six months later, Jean found herself here. In this nice little town. With a cottage that she and Lucien had bought together. Lucien's phonograph and record collection were in the parlor along with the sofa and rugs Jean had bought for her last house. The bedroom set from the room she had with Doctor Blake now resided in the guest bedroom, since they needed to purchase a larger bed for their own bedroom. The dining set Jean had chosen for herself was carefully tucked away in kitchen cabinets that Lucien had painted forest green, just as Jean had wanted. Their bathroom was a pale robin's egg blue like Jean's old living room, as their new living room had come with very pretty wallpaper that they did not want to replace. In designing their new home, Jean and Lucien took each other's tastes into account, though they'd found that Lucien deferred to Jean with most of it. She had been delighted.

For the last few weeks, Jean had been working hard in the front and back garden of the new house. The previous owners had put in a lawn and not done much else. But there was a covered patio area that Jean thought might be nice for some potted plants, and the back fence was just asking for a row of rose trees. In the front, the overgrown hedges needed to be cut back and Jean had hopes of planting honeysuckle vines on either side of the front porch.

It had taken a while, after they'd moved in, for Jean to be able to really get started on the outdoor work. She'd worked on doing everything that needed doing on the interior of the house, putting things where she wanted them, going shopping for the things they didn't have that they would need. Lucien was plenty busy, so Jean took care of almost everything on her own. Now that the rains had stopped, though, it was time to tackle the garden.

On that particular day, Jean was busy trimming the hedges when the postman came by. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Blake," he greeted. "Got a package for you today along with a few letters."

Jean wiped her brow and smiled before pulling off her gardening gloves. Her wedding ring sparkled in the sunlight as her bare hands were revealed to the sun. "Thank you so much, Mr. Clay," she replied, collecting the mail from him. "It's quite hot out today, can I get you a drink?"

"Thanks, Mrs. Blake, but I'm alright for now. Kind of you to offer."

They each offered their polite farewells. Jean brought everything inside the house. Lucien was still otherwise engaged, so she did not bother him. She first opened the package, and when she unwrapped the somewhat heavy item inside, she looked upon it and smiled.

* * *

Lucien concluded his business for the day and found Jean in the kitchen. She was sitting at the table with a box opened beside her as she read a letter. He came right over to kiss her swiftly. "Hello, my darling. What have we here?" he asked.

"I've got a letter from Abigail Harris. She's going to come by next weekend with Aaron so I can finally meet him," Jean explained happily.

"That's wonderful!" Lucien exclaimed. He really was pleased to hear it. The one reservation Jean had felt before they'd moved away, despite knowing it was for the best, was leaving Abigail. She had been a great friend to Jean, giving Jean that motherly purpose that she otherwise lacked in her life working with Lucien and the Church and living alone. It had been quite unpleasant, actually, once the news of Jean and Lucien's indiscretions reached Abigail. She had not been vicious like so many of their neighbors had been, but she had been unspeakably disappointed and betrayed. Jean had explained to Lucien that Abigail felt as though she knew Jean and understood her, but then to find out she'd been carrying on with the parish priest was a very rude awakening. Jean had written to Abigail immediately after they'd moved, to give the new address and to beg for the younger woman to keep in touch. It had taken another letter from Jean, offering advice for childbirth to the expectant mother, before Abigail replied. Since then, however, they'd been writing back and forth constantly. And Lucien could not be happier that Jean's dear friend had found the time to bring the baby over to meet his Auntie Jean, as Abigail called her.

"By the way, you should probably put that up as soon as you can," Jean added with a smile, gesturing to the box.

Curious, Lucien shifted the paper wrapping to find the polished plaque inside. He grinned upon seeing the engraved words:

Dr. Lucien Blake  
Physician & Surgeon

It had taken a bit of doing, another medical board exam and a couple courses with the local hospital to refresh his skills, but Lucien had returned to his former career. He had been able to get a few patients to come see him so far, and he'd been able to convert the office space downstairs into a surgery to use.

Jean had been marvelous about learning some medical assistant skills—helping collect blood samples and do a bit of testing, holding one patient down while Lucien reset a bone, things like that—and she had been invaluable in organizing his inventory and his appointments. He had already been well aware of how lucky he was to have this magnificent woman in his life, and now her assistance with his new work only solidified it.

In the last six months, they'd gone through a myriad of changes. As soon as they could, they got married in the registrar's office. It would have been nice to have some friends or family about, but given the circumstances, it made more sense to just have everything be official and as far away from the Church as possible. Then, as husband and wife, they sold Jean's house and purchased the new one and went through all the difficulties of moving. Jean took care of most things around the house while Lucien was busy getting his medical license and practice up and running.

Now, finally, it felt like they'd found some stability. Abigail and her baby were coming to visit. Next month, they'd be going to Adelaide to see Jean's son and daughter-in-law and granddaughter. Lucien knew Jean had explained the situation to Christopher Junior over the phone and it had been a rather difficult discussion, what with Jean announcing she'd moved again and was now suddenly married. But Christopher had been the one to invite them to visit, so Lucien hoped this was a sign of peace.

That night, after Lucien had mounted the plaque on the front of the house beside the door and he and Jean had shared a wonderful dinner she prepared, Lucien sat alone in the parlor listening to one of his records with a glass of scotch in his hand. He no longer drank to escape his pain or numb his mind. He drank as a nice way of relaxing at the end of a long day. Jean sometimes shared a glass with him when she did some knitting or sewing on the sofa. But tonight he was alone. And he found himself, somehow, thanking God.

Now that religion was no longer a part of his life, he found that he did not worry about God very much. He did not worry if God existed or not. He did not concern himself about whether God approved of him or not. But everything in his life was finally, for the first time in such a long time, all in a state of joyful goodness. And he felt he ought to thank someone for it.

He drained his glass and turned off the phonograph. He locked the door and turned out the lights and made his way upstairs to the bedroom he shared with his wife. He found her sitting at the vanity in her nightgown putting some cream on her face.

"Jean," he began.

"Yes, Lucien?" she replied, smiling at him through the mirror.

Her smile, as always, put a happy flutter in his heart. "I was wondering, do you pray anymore?"

Jean's eyes went wide, a clear indication that she'd not expected him to ask her anything like that. "I don't go to Mass, obviously, but yes, I still pray every night."

"May I ask what you pray for?"

"I close my eyes right before bed and I ask God to watch over Christopher and Ruby and Amelia and Jack and you. I ask God to bless the memory of Christopher and your father and your wife and child. And I thank God for all the gifts bestowed on me, Amen."

Lucien regarded her curiously. "Why do you do that? After all we've been through, I mean."

Jean turned in her chair to look at him directly and she explained, "It's the same prayer I've said nearly all my life. The people in the prayer have changed over the years, but it's all pretty much the same. And I don't know if it does any difference or if I even really believe in it, but it's still habit. And after all we've been through, especially, now that we've made it out the other side, I think I have to believe that was all some kind of divine power to give us strength to get us through. I have to believe there's someone to thank for all the happiness we've found now."

Without a word, Lucien came over and kissed her. When he pulled back, he just whispered, "I quite agree."

That night they both thanked God for the gifts they had been given: the gift of finding each other, the gift of strength to hold onto each other, and the gift of being together with this new beginning.

**THE END**


End file.
